The Deadly Admirer Affair
by Crystal Rose of Pollux
Summary: After the events of the Gurnius Affair, Napoleon and Illya are more than ready to move on from it. But even though Napoleon doesn't blame Illya for what happened, there's someone else who does-someone determined to make Illya pay, and pay dearly.
1. Act I: Midnight Bagel Runs

_Notes: This is my first full-fledged multichapter venture in the MFU fandom, so I have high hopes for it. I know I'm not the first to do a Gurnius aftermath fic, but I'm hoping my spin on it is unique enough. Also, in addition to focusing on the dynamic between Napoleon and Illya, as I usually do, I'll also be featuring their interactions with some of their fellow colleagues (namely Mark, April, Mandy, and George)_.

* * *

Illya had been quiet during most of the initial debriefing of their encounter with Gurnius's lot; Terry Cook had been the one doing most of the talking—gushing to Waverly about what an adventure it had been, and how Illya was a phenomenal actor.

"I really thought he _was_ an evil creep!" she had exclaimed. "I mean, the way he was zapping Mr. Solo with that machine, and then using that poison capsule on him, or whatever that was…!"

She had accepted Waverly's instruction that no one on the outside was to know what had happened—but that didn't stop her from talking Mark's ear off as he escorted her out of their headquarters—not caring about the other agents who were hearing her blab.

Napoleon didn't even bother saying a goodbye as she left; he watched her go from the hallway, his expression rather blank. Baba Yaga, the Office Cat that technically belonged to him and Illya, attempted to get his attention by rubbing up against his shins. He came out of his daze and smiled, picking the cat up and gently talking to her as she purred away in his arms. It was then that he noticed Illya hovering a few feet away, and he carried the cat over to him.

"I think she missed us," Napoleon mused. "And speaking of missing things, you know what I've missed?"

Illya arched an eyebrow, wondering what exactly he was referring to.

"Bagels—authentic New York bagels!" Napoleon reminded him. "I say we go out and get ourselves some bagels to celebrate our triumphant return!"

"It's half past midnight, Napoleon!"

"…When has that ever stopped your appetite?"

Illya gave his partner an indignant look, but then paused as he noticed the genuine look of warmth on his partner's face—that this was Napoleon's way of reassuring him that nothing had changed between them as a result of this mission. And Illya smiled back.

" _Da_. Now that you mention it, I am hungry."

"When aren't you?" Napoleon teased. "Alright, a bagel run, it is! I think I'm in the mood for a nice jalapeño bagel with that spicy cream cheese—and roasted peppers…."

"…Of course," Illya said, shaking his head in amusement. "I shall enjoy a simple, plain bagel with reduced-fat cream cheese."

Napoleon's gaze immediately went to Illya's waistline.

"I don't think you have to worry about reduced fat, but it's your bagel, so I guess that's your prerogative…" He trailed off as Baba Yaga let out a loud meow, alert now at the mention of bagels. Napoleon chuckled and gave her a few more scritches behind her ears. "Of course, my dear; we'll bring you a bit of lox like we always do… It's uncanny how you've learned to associate our bagel runs with your lox-" He grinned as she meowed again at the mention of the word, illustrating his point perfectly.

"She is a little genius," Illya said, fondly. "Very well, then; let's be off."

"Just a moment, Mr. Kuraykin, Mr. Solo."

The duo turned to see Waverly behind them.

"I would like to get an additional, individual briefing from both of you, given the… nature of this case."

"Sir, I resent the implication that Illya has done anything wrong," Napoleon said, a noticeable edge to his voice. "He did exactly as I would have done in that situation, and I say that as both his partner and as CEA."

"I never accused Mr. Kuryakin of anything, Mr. Solo; I merely want to get a separate account from each of you. You first—you can go home and recuperate after that."

Napoleon sighed and glanced at Illya with an apologetic look, who gave a nod of understanding back.

"It's alright, Napoleon," he said. "We can go out for bagels another time. …Or, if you prefer, I can go and buy the bagels, and after you have finished with your debriefing, we can have them here…" He smiled as Baba Yaga meowed again. "And, of course, I shall bring some lox for our little genius."

"Alright; we'll see you in a bit," Napoleon said, carrying the cat with him back to Waverly's office.

Illya watched them go, maintaining his outwardly calm appearance while trying to ignore the tugs on his heartstrings. He knew he was a lucky man to know someone like Napoleon—someone who still trusted him unconditionally, regardless of what Illya'd had to do on the mission. And Illya also knew he was lucky, as so many things could have gone wrong on that last mission.

There had to be more than just bagels to show Napoleon just how grateful Illya was to know him—but they were good for a start, anyway.

He headed down to his other desk in Section VIII, where he kept some of his petty cash reserves. It was on his way down that he suddenly became aware of the whispers and stares following him.

Puzzled, Illya arched an eyebrow and looked back at them, but those who whispered and stared quickly averted their gaze. This was odd and most bizarre; something like this had happened when he had first transferred to New York, but it had soon stopped. Why was it starting again now?

An unpleasant feeling began to well up in Illya's gut, and he pushed the thought aside and headed to his desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other Section VIII members glancing at him, silently.

He turned around once, and they all returned to whatever it was they were doing, much to his vexation.

"Well?" he asked them.

No one met his gaze, and Illya bit his lip, but ignored them; he got the money for the bagels from his desk, and had been about to leave when Mark, April, Mandy, and George all entered the lab.

"Oh, hello," Illya said.

"Hello…" April offered. She looked to Mark and cleared her throat.

"We were just wondering how you were," Mark said.

"I'm fine," Illya said. "Did Miss Cook make it home alright?"

"Oh, yes; she did," Mark said. "She was talking ears off until she got out of the building."

"Speaking of Miss Cook talking ears off," George said. "Some of the things she's said have been… Well, is there a metaphor for hearing something so unbelievable, it's like your ear really does fall off?"

"One can always say that they were knocked over by a feather," Illya said, an edge working its way into his voice, now.

"Well, the feathers are flying all over the building," April said.

"Those feathers are… something else, alright. And you'd be surprised how quickly they've spread here in the building," Mandy said, sheepishly. "We just wanted to make sure you were alright."

Illya scoffed.

"If the rumors are spreading, then would it not make more sense to ask Napoleon how _he_ is feeling?"

"Well, we didn't believe the rumors for a moment!" Mandy protested. "That's why we came to see you—so we could make sure that no one was giving you a hard time over something that's clearly not true!"

Illya suddenly slammed his desk drawer shut, causing the others to stare at him in concern.

"Illya?" George asked. "Are you alright…?"

"Direct your concern and sympathy towards Napoleon," Illya quipped. "The rumors are true."

He stared at the desk for a moment, blankly, before glancing back at the others. George and Mandy looked stunned while Mark and April looked sympathetic.

"You had no choice," Mark realized. "Been there before, Chum—my first partner. One of the first things I told April was that it was altogether possible that something like this could happen between us—and that we'd have to have the nerve to go through with it."

"You always hope it never has to happen," April sighed.

"Wow…" Mandy said, quietly. "Why did I ever think that I wanted to be a field agent?"

April looked to her and smiled.

"It's not a bad life, you know. Though, sometimes, I think I envy your relatively safe desk job."

"Really?" Mandy asked.

"…Sometimes," April repeated.

"Wow," George echoed. "Look, Illya, we never meant to put you on the spot. Sorry we brought it up."

"It's fine," Illya said. "It was that woman who brought it up, and whether or not it had been true, it would have traveled through here at the speed of light." He pocketed his money and looked a bit thoughtful. "Napoleon is being debriefed right now; I expect that, once he's finished, he'll find a way to quash the rumors soon enough. …He's a bit of an expert at that."

"Well, he'd have to be, wouldn't he?" Mark mused. "He's had years of practice…"

"And that rumor was actually true, too," George said.

Illya chuckled, feeling better now, and was about to say something when one of the messengers now entered the lab.

" _There_ you are," he said to Mandy. "I've been looking all over for you; you're not at your desk! There latest batch of reports to be translated was just delivered at the Lower Manhattan drop point!"

"Oh," Mandy groaned, checking her watch. "Can't they wait until morning?"

"You're on night duty for a reason," the messenger said. "How about you do your work instead of socializing with the field agents and the lab technicians?" He cast a glance at Illya. "And the backstabbers?"

Illya's improving mood soured in a heartbeat; the messenger ignored his glare, as well as the others', and left.

"How quickly he forgets that you saved his life the last time a THRUSH infiltrator got in here," Mark muttered. "Ingrate."

"Just wait until Napoleon hears about this," George said. "Then that guy will be singing a different tune-"

"I wouldn't want Napoleon to get dragged into it, either," Illya sighed.

"Well, as much as I want to continue this conversation, I guess I have work to do," Mandy said. "Hang in there, Illya. I'm sure this will all blow over soon."

"Thank you," Illya said, and then he paused. "You know, there's no reason for you to go out this late; I'm going to pick up bagels for Napoleon and myself; I could pick up the reports for you while I'm out."

"Oh, could you?" Mandy asked. "I'd really appreciate that! Thank you so much!"

"Of course," Illya replied, with a nod.

"And I'll help you with those translations so you can leave early," April offered her. "I can grab some snacks from the vending machine to get us through it. What do you say—girls' night in?"

"Sounds great to me," Mandy said.

"Yeah, I can grab my latest project and join you, too…" George began, but trailed off when April and Mandy glanced at him in amusement. "Oh, you mean…?"

"Not us, Chum," Mark translated. "But you can show me your latest project; I'm sure it's intriguing…"

The four of them went off, leaving Illya with the other lab technicians, who were still staring at him, having heard the whole thing. Again, they looked away as he glanced in their direction, prompting him to roll his eyes in exasperation as he left the lab, and ignored the stares from others as he walked out of the building.

The Lower Manhattan drop point was a block from Napoleon's favorite bagel place; it wasn't much of diversion, and after retrieving the reports, Illya soon procured the bag of bagels and lox.

He was, admittedly, lost in thought as he walked back towards the nearest subway entrance. He'd been in New York for seven years, and, easily, the best part about those seven years had been Napoleon—his kindness and genuine caring, always unconditional… the welcoming smiles and the tight bearhugs. Illya normally wasn't one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but Napoleon was, easily, the most important person in his life; how anyone could accuse Illya of intentionally wanting to hurt Napoleon was beyond him—and, no doubt, beyond Napoleon, as well.

Illya exhaled as he continued to walk, taking a shortcut through an alley. Even though he was no stranger to stares and whispers and questions about his loyalties, he had to admit to himself that he was looking forward to spending a quiet day in the apartment with Napoleon, away from any suspicions and accusations…

He smiled to himself as he pictured Napoleon's warm smile; Napoleon would want them to share a nice meal together, and then probably relax in front of the TV, and they would talk, forgetting all about Gurnius and the rumors…

A piecing pain suddenly erupted in his side, jolting him from his thoughts; the image of his smiling partner vanished in the haze of pain as he was brought to the ground of the alley, the bag of bagels and the reports falling beside him.

His hand went to his side automatically, and he let out a quiet gasp as he felt the blood coming from the wound. He'd been shot, he realized; he hadn't even seen his attacker coming, having been preoccupied with his muddled thoughts.

He cursed his foolishness and lack of vigilance; footsteps caused him to glance in that direction, pausing as he saw a silhouette framed by a nearby streetlight, a gun held in the figure's hand. Illya made a feeble grab for his Special as they drew nearer, but a foot came down upon his hand, causing him to let go.

"And you're supposed to be a top agent?" his attacker hissed in a harsh whisper—no doubt done to disguise their voice. "Pathetic. I could finish you off right now, but I think I'll let you bleed out instead."

The attacker struck Illya across the shoulders, and as Illya's vision faded and he saw the attacker reaching for the fallen items he had been carrying, the Russian's last coherent thought was him wishing more than ever that his partner was with him right now.


	2. Act II: Early Morning Vigils

Napoleon was relieved when Waverly finally seemed satisfied with the debriefing—it was still a long session, nearly ninety minutes, and he breathed a sigh of relief once he left Waverly's office, still holding Baba Yaga in his arms. That cat purred contentedly, enjoying not having to walk.

"Remember to send Mr. Kuryakin here once you've finished your bagels," Waverly called after him.

"…Yes, Sir…"

"And you go home and rest," Waverly added. "In fact, it probably wouldn't go amiss to have Medical check you before you go-"

"I'm fine, Sir—really!" Napoleon insisted, and he darted off down the hallway before Waverly could tell him anything else.

He carried Baba Yaga back to the office he shared with Illya, ignoring the people in the hallway trying to catch his eye or speak to him.

"Hey, Illya, I'm finished, so I'll have that bagel now…" He trailed off as he found the office empty; Baba Yaga let out a murowr of puzzlement, also wondering where Illya was. "…Now where'd he go…?"

Puzzled, he left their office, deciding to check out Section VIII, but stopped as he saw April and Mandy heading his way.

"Have you seen Illya?" they all asked, in unison.

"…Well, I guess that answers that," April sighed. "He was supposed to pick up the latest batch of reports for Mandy to translate."

"And that was over an hour ago," Mandy added. "He said he'd pick them up along with the bagels."

Napoleon bit his lip.

"Hopefully, it's just traffic slowing him down," he said, but there was an unexplained worry growing in his voice, and, still holding onto the cat with one arm, he pulled out his communicator. "Open Channel D. Illya, you alright?"

Silence.

"…Illya?"

"Maybe… Maybe he's preoccupied with something?" April asked, but her voice lacked any conviction, as well.

Napoleon exhaled as the feeling in his gut increased.

"…April, can you-?"

"I'll get Mark; we'll meet you at the front entrance," she said, immediately, and she gave Mandy's shoulder a squeeze before heading down the corridor.

"Thank you!" Napoleon called after her. He turned to Mandy. "Mandy, can you and George use Illya's homing device signal to help us get a location on him?"

"Right," she said, her reports forgotten.

Napoleon sighed and now placed Baba Yaga back in the office, in her basket. She let out a concerned meow, prompting him to gently scratch the spot behind her ears.

"I know," he sighed. "I'm worried about him too."

She meowed again, and Napoleon managed a wan smile.

"I'll bring him back," he said, softly. _I hope_ …

He bid the cat farewell and headed out, meeting Mark and April there, and the three of them headed downtown. They had checked out both the message drop as well as the bagel shop; finding the former empty and the latter confirming that Illya had been there nearly an hour ago, it left many question still unanswered for the other U.N.C.L.E. agents, and more for them to worry about.

Napoleon's communicator went off as George called him.

"The good news is that I've located the signal from Illya's homing device," he said, relaying the coordinates to Napoleon.

"Thanks, George. …And what's the bad news?"

"…The signal isn't moving—hasn't moved in a while, according to the data."

Napoleon exhaled and began to run, with April and Mark right behind him, turning into the alley. Napoleon paused, seeing nothing in his line of vision first, but then glanced down—

" _ILLYA_!"

He was at his partner's side in an instant, checking his pulse and breathing.

"Is he…?" April began.

"He's alive, but he's been shot," Napoleon said. "Mark, contact Medical."

"Right," he replied, reaching for his communicator.

Napoleon didn't respond to him or to April, who was now inspecting the items around Illya; Napoleon instead focused his attention on his partner.

"Illya," he said, softly. "Illya, can you hear me?"

Illya was unresponsive, and Napoleon just held him close, trying to stop the bleeding as the world continued on around him—yet stopped for himself.

* * *

Time never seemed to be real when worrying over an injured partner, and Napoleon paid no attention to it. He merely waited outside the operating room doors as the Medical staff worked to remove the bullet from his partner—a place where he had stood before, far too many times.

Beside him stood Baba Yaga, subdued and clearly upset; she didn't even react as people filed in and out, querying about Illya—maddeningly enough, about the rumors in addition to his condition. Napoleon didn't answer them, either, and he was grateful when Mark, April, Mandy, and George showed up, shooing the curious away.

"Any update on him?" Mark asked.

Napoleon shook his head.

"They're still working on him."

"Napoleon, I'm so sorry," Mandy said, unable to look him in the eyes. "This whole thing is my fault… If I hadn't asked him to get the reports for me-"

"He volunteered, Mandy; he didn't want you going downtown after midnight," April said, placing a hand on her shoulder again. "And this wasn't about the reports."

Napoleon blinked in confusion.

"It wasn't?" he asked. "I'd just assumed that THRUSH or whoever attacked him had gone after the reports…"

"That was my first thought, too, but the envelope with the reports was still there beside him, and the seal was still intact," April said.

"Then, why was he attacked?" George asked. "Just because they recognized him as an U.N.C.L.E. agent?"

"I don't know whether or not they knew he was from U.N.C.L.E., but they were after the bagels," April said.

" _What_?" everyone else asked, in unison.

"I can't explain it, either," April said. "But when I noticed that the envelope with the reports was untouched, on a whim, I looked in the bagel bag. A piece from one of the bagels was missing—the jalapeño-and-asiago one with the herb cream cheese."

"Do you mean to tell me that Illya was shot for a piece of _my_ bagel?" Napoleon asked.

"Perhaps whoever did it thought that the envelope was a decoy and a real message was in a bagel," George said. "I can't possibly think of any other reason."

"Then why wouldn't they take the entire bagel bag and the reports just to make sure?" Mandy asked.

"THRUSH were never ones for rational thought," Napoleon said, darkly.

"Steady on," Mark said. "I know you're angry, Napoleon; we all are. We will find who did this."

"Indeed, we will, Mr. Slate," Waverly said, joining them now. "And we shall all require our wits about us to do so. Any word on Mr. Kuryakin's condition?"

Before Napoleon could reply, the doors of the operating room opened, and he now focused as a stretcher was wheeled out, his partner lying on it, wide-eyed on account of whatever painkillers he'd been given.

"Illya?" Napoleon asked, hastening to his side as the orderlies began to wheel him to the recovery ward.

"Hmmmmmm?" Illya asked, airily, as he tried to focus on Napoleon; it took him a moment to recognize him. "…Ahh, 'Poleon, 'm sorry…"

"Sorry? For what?" Napoleon asked, incredulously.

"…Lost th'bagles…" Illya trailed off as his sedated mind recognized the others crowding around the stretcher. "Ahh, Mandy, and 'm sorry I lost th' 'ports…"

"We have the reports, Illya, but never mind those," she said. "I'm just glad you're okay…" She trailed off and looked to the orderlies. "…He _is_ going to be okay, right?"

"We got the bullet out and gave him a transfusion," one of the orderlies replied. "He should be fine."

"Well, that's a relief," George sighed.

"You can say that again," April said. "Now we can focus on finding out who did this to him."

"Quite right, Miss Dancer," Waverly said. "Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Sirrrrrrr…?" Illya slurred.

"Mr. Kuryakin, is there anything you can tell us about your attacker?"

"'Twas verrrrrrrrrrry stealthy."

"Any specific details? Identifying features or anything else you observed?" Waverly asked.

Illya responded with a long, drawn-out "Ahhhhhhhhhhhh" that ended up being a prelude to a song that he started to hum.

"Ah, Sir, I can speak from experience and say that we are not likely to get any coherent details from him until he sleeps it off," Napoleon said.

"Oh. Yes, I suppose you would know best," Waverly agreed. "Very well, we'll do what can for now—and we'll need everyone's talents for this. Miss Dancer, Mr. Slate—I want the both of you to search downtown for any possible leads, and do be careful while you're there."

"Yes, Sir."

"Of course, Sir."

"Miss Stevenson, I want you to go over those reports with a metaphorical fine-toothed comb and see if there's anything out of the ordinary about them."

"Right, Sir."

"Mr. Dennell, though it seems unlikely, I would like for you and the lab technicians to analyze those two bagels and make sure they aren't amiss in some way."

"I'll get on that right away, Sir."

"And lastly, Mr. Solo, you will continue to look after Mr. Kuryakin, and let me know when he is able to give some details about the attack."

"Thank you, Sir; I will certainly do that."

"Right, we've all got work to do," Waverly said. "For Mr. Kuryakin's sake, let's hope we get some results."

The others went their separate ways, and Waverly went back to his office; Napoleon followed the orderlies to the recovery ward and, after the orderlies had left Illya in one of the beds and left, Napoleon snuck Baba Yaga into the room.

"They say a cat's purr promotes healing," he said to her. "So if you want to help your papa, here's how."

Baba Yaga meowed at him and then leaped up onto the bed, curling up against Illya's side and purring away. Illya grinned and gave her some rather uncoordinated scritches that were supposed to be behind her ears but ended up on her back—she appreciated them all the same, and Illya glanced back at his partner.

"She 'llowed to be here?" he asked.

"I won't tell if you won't," Napoleon promised.

" _Da_ , _da_ —th' word is mum," Illya slurred, giving a vigorous nod that only ended up making him dizzier. "Ooh…" He placed his other hand on his forehead.

"Okay, okay," Napoleon said, gently placing Illya's hand back down by his side. "You need to sleep."

"Mmmmhhh," the Russian protested. "You going home, then?"

"Of course not; I'm staying right here." Napoleon paused, now putting together the pieces—the rumors he had heard flying after his debriefing, and now, despite his partner's reputation as the Ice Prince, they would have surely bothered him nonetheless. "Illya… I'm so sorry for all of this."

"You're s'rry?" Illya asked. "S'my fault. Got distracted."

"That's exactly what I mean," Napoleon said. "You did everything by the book on our last mission—everything I would have done if our situations had been reversed. But, somehow, so many people here think you're suddenly Vlad the Impaler—you wouldn't have been distracted if that hadn't been going on. And I should have realized that anyone outside of Section II who doesn't know you would have been spreading those rumors. Maybe I am a bit too idealistic, like everyone says."

"You're wonderful."

Napoleon smiled at him.

"And so are you. Now get some sleep—you need it."

Illya exhaled and relaxed, and Napoleon brushed away the strands of hair falling over his face.

"I meant that," Napoleon said, softly. "…And I know you meant it, too."

And he sat there, maintaining his vigil.


	3. Act III: Questions but No Answers

Illya had been keeping his eyes closed even after waking up some time later. He did a mental check now, trying to get his bearings.

 _What happened…?_ he asked himself. He winced as he moved and felt the pain flare up in his side—where he had been wounded. _…I was shot…!_

His breathing suddenly quickened as the memories from the night before returned, but he was soon aware of a gentle hand on his face.

"Hey," he heard Napoleon say, softly. "It's okay. You're safe. I'm here."

Napoleon's words were punctuated by soft murowrs, and Illya relaxed, realizing that both his partner and their cat had obviously been looking after him while he slept.

Illya opened his eyes now, seeing that it was clearly daytime, but Napoleon had closed the blinds to allow Illya to sleep some more.

Illya looked up at Napoleon with a wan smile.

"After our last mission, I should have been the one looking after you," he mumbled. "Napoleon…"

"Don't think about that," his partner said, gripping Illya's hand. "I'm fine. But how are you?"

"As good as I can be for being shot at," Illya said. He sighed. "I suppose you wish to know what happened?"

"That would be good."

"Alas, I cannot say much," Illya sighed. "I had just gotten the bagels and had been taking a shortcut through the alley to get to the nearest subway entrance to come back here. I admit, my mind was… elsewhere, and I was not as vigilant as I should have been. Whoever it was took me completely by surprise."

"Do you have any description of your attacker?"

Illya shook his head.

"It happened so quickly, and the lighting in the alley was dim," he said. "And the attacker spoke to me in a harsh whisper; the voice was well-masked."

"The attacker spoke to you? What did they say?"

"Nothing much. Taunted me for not seeing it coming, and…" Illya trailed off, shuddering.

"Illya?" Napoleon asked, softly.

"They said they wanted me to bleed out—die a slow death."

Napoleon swore under his breath.

"Napoleon, please… I am fine now. …I hope you did not worry too much."

"Well, I breathed easier when you started snoring a few hours ago; that was when Baba Yaga took a catnap, too."

"I do not snore."

" _Au contraire_!"

Illya smiled in spite of himself, and then he sobered.

"I still don't know what the attacker was after. I seem to remember Mandy saying last night that the reports were still intact."

"They were," Napoleon said. "Whoever it was stole a piece of my bagel. And before you ask if it was someone hungry who took it from you, they only took one piece of my bagel; they left yours and the rest of mine alone."

"…What." Illya's tone of voice wasn't even questioning; it was flat disbelief.

"We were just as puzzled, believe me."

"It sounds as though someone shot me and then took the piece of bagel just to taunt me," Illya muttered.

"That was my thought—sounds like the kind of thing THRUSH would do," Napoleon said. "April and Mark have been out looking for clues; hopefully, they'll be able to find something so we can find out which feathered fiend did it."

Illya sighed.

"And how long am I to be stuck here in this purgatory of Medical?"

Napoleon grinned; if Illya was complaining about being in Medical, then he was most definitely on the mend.

"Can't help you there—though I'll do my best to convince the staff that you'll be best recuperating at home. Maybe I'll tell them that I'll rest, too, if they let you go home… We can malinger together."

"I thought you said you were fine," Illya said, suddenly concerned.

"I am," Napoleon assured him, now pulling a cart with a covered tray beside Illya's bed. "It was Mr. Waverly who thinks I need to rest. Personally, I've never felt better. And I bet you'll feel much better if you get something to eat. You want lunch?"

"Don't you mean breakfast?"

"No, I mean lunch," Napoleon said, showing Illya his watch.

Illya's eyes widened.

"I slept in until _two in the afternoon_!?"

"Well, you _did_ just spend half the night getting shot at and then going under the knife," Napoleon reminded him.

Illya grumbled and complained under his breath some more, and it was music to Napoleon's ears as he uncovered the tray of food.

The sight of the food did slightly improve Illya's mood, and he began to eat, pausing as Baba Yaga meowed and started staring at his tray very intently.

"…I think she wants you to share," Napoleon mused.

Illya shook his head in amusement, but caved in and gave Baba Yaga part of his filet of sole, which she happily accepted.

"She has me wrapped around her paw, and she knows it," he sighed.

"You're just a great dad to her."

"So are you."

"Yes, but you're the one who spoils her," Napoleon teased.

Their conversation was soon halted by a knock on the recovery ward door. Napoleon momentarily panicked as Illya indicated Baba Yaga; Napoleon quickly scooped up the cat in his suitjacket to hide her from view, who protested as she dropped her piece of fish because of the sudden movement.

"Come in!" he called. "Oh, it's you guys?"

He put Baba Yaga back down to reclaim the fish as April and Mark entered, followed by Mandy and George. Illya greeted them.

"How are you feeling?" April asked.

"Much better," the Russian assured her. "Now, perhaps, you can tell me something about my attacker?"

"Sorry, Chum," Mark said, sympathetically. "Whoever it is knows a lot about how to cover one's tracks. There wasn't a shred of evidence at the site or on either the papers or the bagels."

"They must have worn gloves _and_ shoe covers," April said. "There were no footprints, either."

"After they checked the reports and the envelope for fingerprints, I went over them and even had two people from the cryptology department go over them in English and Portuguese," Mandy said, shaking her head. "There were no codes or any sort of hidden messages in those reports."

"And I haven't had a chance to test the bagels yet," George said. "Someone's already using the lab's analysis equipment; I have to wait until they're done. But the fingerprint check came up empty, and all the preliminary tests show that, so far, the bagels are just regular, ordinary, edible bagels without any adulteration or secrets."

"And Illya didn't get a good look at his attacker, either. Great; so we've all hit nothing but dead ends," Napoleon sighed.

There were a couple of sheepish apologies all around him, and Napoleon managed a wan smile.

"It's alright," he said. "You're all doing your best, and I appreciate it. Whoever did this knew what they were doing to avoid being identified. But we're still going to find out who did it."

"Anything in particular you want us to do now?" April asked.

"See if you can pick up any news on THRUSH sightings in the New York area," Napoleon said. "If you and Mark can get a list of names, maybe we can deduce which of our suspects is most likely to have done this. …But, ah, get some rest if you need it; I know you two have been out there searching since early this morning."

"It's for Illya; we don't mind," Mark insisted.

"We want this creep captured too, Napoleon," April agreed. "But we'll be sure to pace ourselves."

"Okay," Napoleon said, with a grateful nod. "Mandy, I know you said cryptology went over those reports-"

"You want me to go over them one more time?" she asked.

"If it's not too much trouble—compare them to the previous set of reports and see if there's anything different. And George, as soon as that lab equipment is available, see if there is anything amiss with that bagel."

"Right."

"And what I said to Mark and April goes for you, too—you've both been busy since early this morning, too, so take as much rest as you need."

"And we want to find out who did this, too," Mandy said.

"So if there's any small way we can help, we want to," George added.

"Thank you," Illya said, quietly. "All of you."

The others insisted they were glad to do it, and Napoleon just smiled at him.

"See, _Tovarisch_ , it isn't just you and me against the world; we've got a whole team on our side—the very best there is!" He winked and gently touched Illya's cheek. "If you're feeling up to resting by yourself, I'd like to get out there and shake a few trees myself."

"What do you have in mind?" Mark asked.

"I have it on reliable authority that Victor Marton has been setting up a new THRUSH front in Newark," Napoleon said. "Perhaps I can cash in on his former partnership with Mr. Waverly to get some information on who was in Manhattan early this morning—or who would have enough of an axe to grind to go all the way to Manhattan just to confront Illya."

"Good luck," April said. "We'll let you know over Channel D if we find anything important."

"That goes for us, too," George said.

Napoleon and Illya both thanked them as they headed back out, and Illya turned his attention back to his lunch.

"So…" Illya said, as he ate. "What happens if you meet with Marton, and he does not wish to divulge any information? You know how difficult he likes to be."

"I normally don't like to involve my Special in an argument, but I have found that it can be quite persuasive; if it means finding out who did this to you, I'll gladly resort to that, even on Marton himself."

Illya paused, hearing the underlying anger in his partner's voice—a rare occurrence, and, therefore, significant.

"Napoleon…" he said, softly.

"Sleeping darts," Napoleon promised. He paused. "Unless you'd prefer that I stay with you."

Napoleon glanced back at him, and Illya stared into his partner's eyes. Of course, Illya wanted him to stay; Napoleon's presence was always the biggest comfort whenever he was shacked up in Medical. Yet he could also see the burning desire in Napoleon's eyes to bring whoever did this to justice.

"Go on," Illya encouraged him.

"Are you really sure? Just say the word, and I'll stay right here."

Illya smiled at him.

" _Da_ , I am sure, Napoleon. I'm still rather tired; perhaps if I sleep some more, I can convince the staff to let me rest at home." He paused. "Are the stories about our last mission still circulating?"

"…I haven't really been around the building since you were brought in here, but I assume—and hope—that your latest misfortune has pushed those aside for now," Napoleon said. "Look, ah… As soon as I'm back from Newark, I'll pull rank for a bit and convince them to let you go home."

"I would appreciate that very much."

"I thought so," Napoleon mused. He felt a sudden twist in his gut, as though his sixth sense was telling him that he should do that sooner rather than later. "Actually, you know what? Why don't I do that now—drop you off at home and then go to Newark?"

"While I would appreciate that very much, as well, would it not make more sense to try to pick up a trail before it goes cold?"

Napoleon blinked.

"I guess you've got a point there…" he said. He smiled as Illya put the empty food tray back on the cart, and Napoleon obligingly tucked him in as he laid back down on the bed. "I'll see you later." He gave Baba Yaga another scratch behind the ears as she curled up again next to Illya's wounded side and resumed purring. "And I'll see you later, too."

"Good luck," Illya offered, as he closed his eyes.

"Thanks; hopefully, I'll return with some good news." He paused on his way out, looking back at his partner, who was resting while absently petting the cat. Once again, Napoleon pushed aside the nagging feeling that he should take Illya home now, bid him goodbye, and headed out of the recovery ward.

There was work to do.


	4. Act IV: Strike of the Serpent

Illya had continued to rest; he had even drifted off to sleep, dreaming about heading out into the field with his partner. It was some time later that he had awakened to the unpleasant sensation of something restraining his chest tightly—and to the sound of Baba Yaga hissing and spitting furiously.

He opened his eyes, frowning in discomfort at the tightness around his chest.

"What-?" he began, but a cloth was quickly tied around his mouth, gagging him. His eyes widened as he turned his head to see a figure dressed in black with a matching mask, and then Illya realized that the reason he couldn't move was because he was tied down to his hospital bed.

The figure was trying to tie another rope around him—this time, around his abdomen—when Baba Yaga snapped. The cat attacked the attacker, clawing and biting at the attacker's arm; the sleeve of the attacker's arm slipped down, and Baba Yaga sunk her canines into the exposed flesh.

The attacker swore, shaking their arm with such a force that the cat went flying off, but she landed on her feet on the floor, hissing angrily again. The attacker grabbed one of the bowls from Illya's food tray and hurled it at her, prompting the cat to dodge the bowl and flee out the door of the recovery room, screeching.

Through it all, Illya could only counter with muffled protests as he tried to loosen the rope around his chest, but the moment Baba Yaga had fled, the attacker resumed tying him down further with a second rope around his abdomen and a third around his thighs. Illya continued to struggle against the restraints, and his attacker watched him for some time in what seemed like quiet amusement.

"Not very fun, is it?" the attacker asked, in a harsh whisper that disguised their voice. "But you probably didn't even bother to think that this is how Solo felt when you tied him up and tortured him."

Illya froze as the full realization of his situation came crashing down upon him like a ton of bricks. It wasn't THRUSH who attacked him—it was someone from here, one of his own coworkers in this very building who had heard the rumors and had decided to take matters into their own hands.

Illya now let out a muffled protest.

"Save it, you backstabbing little fiend," the attacker snarled at him. "I've been seeing through your little game—you've had it in for Solo for years! Everyone knows that with him out of the way, you step up to CEA. And now, you finally had the opportunity to bump him off and make it look like part of the mission." The attacker backhanded Illya across the face; the Russian flinched out of reflex. "And it's not even the first time, either. I know about what happened at Club Thanatopsis last month, too. I bet you weren't even really brainwashed; you were going to kill him and blame THRUSH, just like you were going to blame THRUSH and Gurnius now! That's twice you've tried to kill Solo, and I'm not going to let the third time be the charm."

Illya tried to protest again, earning him another backhand to the face; he let out a quiet, muffled gasp—that one had stung more than the first.

"You poisoned that bagel, didn't you?" the attacker accused. "I've got a piece of it being analyzed in the lab—once the results come out, then everyone will see what you were going to do. And once Solo finds out, he won't be upset to see you gone."

Illya froze again as the attacker now drew a syringe with a dark green liquid in it; as if to taunt him, the attacker held it a few inches from Illya's face.

"An eye for an eye—and poison for poison," the attacker sneered.

Illya let out a muffled " _No_!"

But the attacker remained unmoved.

"And you know the best thing about this?" the attacker continued. "I'm actually glad you survived the bullet. This really will be far more satisfying. Because, this time, Solo will realize his so-called partner was a traitor all along. And he'll stand here and watch you die without lifting a finger to help you, because it's exactly what you deserve. You'll die knowing that he found you out, and that he will never forgive you. And I will be his hero for unmasking you as the enemy."

Illya struggled to move, but there was nothing he could do, and a moment later, he felt the needle plunge into his arm. He let out a weak moan as he felt a burning sensation start flowing down inside of his arm.

"I really hope Solo gets here soon," the attacker mused, beginning to untie Illya as his struggles against the rope got weaker. "The sooner Solo sees you for what you, are, the better. And he'll soon be free of you and your fiendish plots to kill him. He beat you, and I helped him do it."

Before untying him fully, the attacker grasped at Illya's pressure points on his neck and pressed them until Illya fell unconscious. The attacker then removed all of the ropes and the gag; soon, there was no way to tell that Illya had been restrained.

The attacker gathered all of the ropes and the gag, as well as any other signs that they had been there, cast one last glance of contempt at the unconscious Russian, and then left the room as silently as they had entered.

Now, all the attacker had to do was wait; the poison would do the rest. And then they were sure that Napoleon Solo would reward them beyond their wildest dreams for what they had done for him.

* * *

Napoleon Solo, in the meantime had driven all the way to Newark and had found Marton's front fairly quickly. After making sure that there were no THRUSH minions around, Napoleon went inside, right for the main office.

Marton was busy at his desk, going over what seemed to be a THRUSH duty roster, and he only looked slightly inconvenienced as Napoleon strode over to him with his Special in his hand.

"Ah, Monsieur Solo," Marton said. "An unexpected pleasure indeed. What brings you to seek my aid?"

"I don't seek your aid, Marton; I seek answers," Napoleon replied, coldly.

"Really, Monsieur Solo? If one of us was to ask answers of the others, it should be me, not you?"

"How do you figure that?" Napoleon asked.

"Because I heard from one of my men about what happened in San Rico," Marton said. "And how one of our agents, Monsieur Brown, was killed by Gurnius's men—at the suggestion of 'Colonel Nexor,' who was really your Monsieur Kuryakin, who also seemed to have convinced Gurnius to try to take over THRUSH before he was killed."

Napoleon stared at the calm look on Marton's face.

"You're taking this well," he observed.

"I'm not sorry to see Monsieur Brown go," Marton said, waving his hand in dismissal. "I may be with THRUSH now, but I have never approved of Gurnius and his ilk; I was with the Free French during the War, and I have not forgotten what we went through on account of them. If anything, I actually appreciate what your Monsieur Kuryakin has done to remove those thorns from everyone's sides."

"Well, one of your agents didn't appreciate it, and they took out their frustrations on my Monsieur Kuryakin, and I demand to know who!" Napoleon retorted.

Marton blinked, surprised, as though this was news to him.

" _Pardon_?"

"I mean that someone shot Illya last night when he was out getting a midnight snack for the two of us, and whoever it was left him to bleed out in an alley!"

Marton stared at Napoleon for a moment.

"I did not order such an attack; in fact, had I known that any of my agents would have considered such an attack, I would have dissuaded them immediately," Marton insisted.

"Oh, really? And why's that?"

"Because of the other details that we received from San Rico—apparently, we have it on reliable authority that Monsieur Kuryakin, in the process of maintaining his cover, had to torture you."

Napoleon gave Marton an incredulous look.

"And THRUSH agents in the Tri-State area suddenly have a newfound appreciation for Illya?" he asked. "And somehow want to shoot him because of that?"

"Not at all," Marton said. "THRUSH agents seldom realize the deep bonds of loyalty that you men have on the opposite side, but I know that Monsieur Kuryakin's anger at being forced to hurt you would have made him a force to be reckoned with. I would have doubted that he would have shown any mercy had any of my agents tried to attack him, and I would have told my agents that."

"…And how would you know?" Napoleon asked.

"Monsieur Solo, have you forgotten that Alexander and I were once partners like you and Monsieur Kuryakin?"

"Of course not!"

"Then why do you assume that the two of us had not gone through something similar to what you and Monsieur Kuryakin had in San Rico?"

"…Do you mean to tell me that you once had to torture Mr. Waverly to maintain your cover!?" Napoleon asked, stunned.

"Oh, no, Monsieur Solo—it was the other way around!"

"Oh, well, if that's the case…" Napoleon trailed off, the words taking a moment to sink in. " _What_!?"

"I can guarantee you, Monsieur Solo, you will never want to see Alexander as furious as he was that day," Marton said. "He eliminated an entire cell of enemy agents because they dared to approach us while I was still recovering—even though they retreated after he killed the first three." He bit back a smile at the gobsmacked look on Napoleon's face. "You see now, Monsieur Solo, why I would have stopped any attempt at any of my agents going after Monsieur Kuryakin?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Napoleon admitted. "But who in the Tri-State area would just refuse to listen to you and go to Manhattan anyway? Were any THRUSH agents in Lower Manhattan around midnight last night?"

"My word is not the law at THRUSH, though I certainly wish it was," Marton mused. "And, to my knowledge, there were no THRUSH agents in Lower Manhattan—Manhattan has been difficult for us to maneuver around in ever since you and Monsieur Kuryakin rendered our haberdashery front useless last year."

"…If I find out that you're lying to me…"

"Would I be so foolish as to risk the wrath of a man with a wounded partner? I told you, I know what the fierce loyalties are like on your side—I was once there. And, in any case, how would we have known that Monsieur Kuryakin would have been going to get a midnight snack, of all things? As far as I can tell you, it wasn't us-this time."

Napoleon narrowed his gaze at Marton, but then silently conceded that the Frenchman had a point.

"I wish you luck on your little quest, Monsieur Solo," Marton said. "And may God have mercy on the guilty party once you catch up with them. Give my regards to Alexander, won't you? …I would advise against asking him about that old mission of ours."

Napoleon let out a quiet scoff, and backed away, still not willing to turn his back on Marton. He only turned around after he was well out of range of the front, and then idly wondered why, if Waverly and Marton had been that close, that partnership couldn't have lasted. Why had Marton gone to the enemy side?

Napoleon shook his head. Whatever the reason, it wouldn't happen to him and Illya, he determined. This last mission had proven that the two of them could get through anything—even torture.

He pushed the thought aside and got into his car; he was just about to start the car when his communicator let out a whistle.

"Solo here," he said.

"Napoleon?" George asked over the channel. His voice sounded strained—as though something wasn't right.

"George? Is everything alright?" Napoleon had a horrible feeling that this wasn't about the bagels at all.

"No…" George said, and he struggled to find the words. "It's Illya. Something's wrong—very wrong."

Napoleon's throat constricted, as though his heart had gotten stuck there.

"What happened?" he managed to say.

"We're still trying to figure that out… I was in the lab, still waiting for the analysis machine to be free, and Baba Yaga came in, screeching like a banshee. I figured something had to have gone wrong, so I went back to the recovery ward to check on Illya. He's taken a turn for the worse; his vitals have just plummeted… They've moved him to intensive care now; the Medical staff are trying to figure out what happened, but…" He trailed off. "It's bad, Napoleon; it's really bad. You need to get back here right away."

"I'm on my way back right now," Napoleon said, expending extra energy just to get his vocal cords to work properly. "Tell him, George. Tell him that I'll be there—and that he'd better hold on."

"I will. Please, hurry!"

Napoleon barely managed a goodbye before putting his communicator away and driving off, ignoring the horrible feeling that the ground had opened up beneath him and was swallowing him alive.

 _Hold on, Illya_ , he silently pleaded. _Please… Hold on_.


	5. Act V: The World isn't on My Side

Napoleon wasn't sure how he managed to get back to New York; he had barely been aware of arriving back and tearing through Del Floria's—racing to Medical as soon as he got his badge.

Mark, April, Mandy, and George were waiting outside the Intensive Care room, looking through the closed glass doors. Baba Yaga was also waiting outside, meowing worriedly as she paced the room.

"What's happened to him?" Napoleon asked, trying to see through the glass as Baba Yaga ran to his side and started wailing as she rubbed up against his legs. Medical staff were crowding around Illya's bed, preventing him from getting a good look at his partner. "Why are you all standing out here?"

"They won't let us in," April said, softly. "Not until Illya's condition has stabilized. And they don't know what's wrong yet."

Napoleon just stood there for a moment, trying to grasp April's words as he chewed himself out for not listening to his gut instinct earlier when something had told him not to leave Illya all alone.

"…I have to get in there," he said, at last, trying to go through the doors. "I need to see him-"

"Steady on; they'll only throw you out," Mark said, holding him back. "Do you have any idea what could be the matter?"

"No," Napoleon said, helplessly. "He was grumpy and still dealing with the wound, but otherwise, he was absolutely fine when I left him. I don't understand…!"

Baba Yaga meowed loudly again.

"I know, my dear, I know," Napoleon said, misunderstanding her. "Thank you for alerting George that something was wrong." He looked back to the others as Baba Yaga meowed again. "Has Medical said anything about what might be wrong with him? Anything at all?"

"Medical aid isn't something for the realms of conjecture," George said. "They don't want to make any assumptions until they're sure. But, offhand, I'd say that he had a very bad reaction to something."

"To what?" Napoleon asked, shaking his head. "He had lunch and then went back to sleep."

"Maybe something was wrong with what he ate?" Mandy asked. "What did he have for lunch?"

"Filet of sole, a side salad, some roasted potato wedges, and fruit juice," Napoleon recalled.

"Maybe something was wrong with the fish?" April suggested.

"No, it can't be the fish," Napoleon said, shaking his head. "Baba Yaga had a piece of it, and she's fine. If it was something, it was either in the salad, the potatoes, or the juice. Have they analyzed the food?"

"…It's Illya. There wasn't any food left to analyze," Mark said. "But they are going over the dishes and tray to see if there was anyone tampering with it."

Napoleon gave a hollow nod, and then let out a quiet gasp; the crowd of staff around Illya's bed had thinned enough for him to get a look at his partner for the first time since leaving him. Illya's face was slightly sunken in and devoid of all color, and his breathing was slow and visibly labored.

"Oh, God, no…" Napoleon whispered.

Mandy gasped and looked away, able to watch anymore; April hugged her comfortingly, all the while staring at the scene.

"He was doing so well when we left," she said, softly. "It's as if this was timed to happen when none of us were there."

"And I need to get in there to keep it from getting worse…" Napoleon declared, opening the doors before Mark could stop him again.

Instantly, one of the doctors and two nurses blocked his path.

"You can't come in yet, Mr. Solo; Mr. Kuryakin's condition isn't fully stabilized," the doctor said.

"I need to let him know that I'm here!" Napoleon retorted.

"We have our rules, Mr. Solo; you know this," the doctor responded. "We go through this every time-"

"Surely, Doctor, you allow for some exceptions?" Mr. Waverly's voice spoke from behind Napoleon.

Napoleon turned to see his boss having just arrived.

"Sir, I just need-"

"The only exceptions we allow for are immediate family members, Sir, and only for two minutes," the doctor replied. "In the event that the patient may not pull through, we make the allowances."

"Then, seeing as though Mr. Kuryakin has no blood relatives, it would seem to me that Mr. Solo does qualify."

But Napoleon was now concerned by something else.

"'In the event the patient may not pull through?'" he repeated, feeling as though he had just been punched in the stomach. "Just how bad is he? What even _happened_? He was fine when I left-!"

"That well may be, but his condition is very serious now, Mr. Solo," the doctor responded. "And we're still not sure of the cause of his sudden deterioration; it's as much an unexpected shock and a mystery to us, as well, seeing as though Mr. Kuryakin is usually remarkably resilient. We'll be sending down his blood to the lab for testing, but right now, our priority is stabilizing him."

Napoleon just stared at the doctor, wordlessly.

"I want my two minutes with him," he insisted.

The doctor hesitated, but looked from him to Waverly, and then sighed, knowing that there was no point in fighting him.

"Two minutes, but not a moment more," he conceded. "And Mr. Solo will be the only visitor; I'm not having each of _them_ take two minutes." He indicated Mark, April, Mandy, and George, who were still watching, silently.

"Well, I think that's fair enough," Waverly agreed.

"And we will still be here, so it will hardly be a private conversation," the doctor added.

Napoleon didn't even respond to that; he headed straight for the sink to wash up and then went to Illya's side, gently touching his hand.

"Illya," he said, loud enough to make himself heard. "Illya, I'm back… I can only stay for two minutes; they'll let me back in once you've stabilized. So you'd better stabilize fast, okay? They let me in here to say goodbye in case you don't make it. But they don't know you like I do. I know this isn't going to be goodbye. I know you'll keep pulling through as long as you've got a scrap of fight left in you. So keep fighting, _Tovarisch_. Please."

Illya's expression didn't change; he continued to lie there, unresponsive. Napoleon exhaled; he knew from having been on the opposite side of this scenario that even if Illya didn't show any indication of it, he could still hear him.

"I'm going to be right outside the doors until they let me back in here," he promised. "And then I'll be right here by your side they moment they do."

"Your two minutes are up, Mr. Solo," the doctor said, moving to guide Napoleon away from the bed.

Napoleon let go of Illya's hand reluctantly as he backed away, not daring to turn away until his view was obscured by the staff once again crowding around Illya's bed. He turned back to the doctor.

"You will let me know the moment I can go back in?" he asked.

The doctor nodded and returned back to the intensive care room, leaving Napoleon looking through the glass once more.

"Sir," April said, now addressing Waverly. "I regret to inform you that Mark and I weren't able to get any potential THRUSH suspects."

"That's because THRUSH didn't do it," Napoleon said, still not taking his eyes off of Illya. "Victor Marton provided some good arguments." He sighed. "He sends you his regards, Sir."

"Yes, I expect he would. Victor would certainly know…" Waverly mused, but trailed off before he said too much, and Napoleon was reminded of what Marton had told him about his and Waverly's past. "Well, never mind that. Miss Dancer, Mr. Slate—I need the two of you to go out there again. If not THRUSH, then look into any other organizations that might have had it in for Mr. Kuryakin—KAOS, V.I.L.E., the Mob… You know what to look for."

"Right, Sir."

"We'll do our best, Sir."

"Mr. Dennell, did you find anything amiss with those bagels Mr. Kuryakin had purchased?" Waverly asked.

"I didn't get a chance to test them, Sir," George admitted. "Someone else has been using the analyzer down in Section VIII."

"Well, whatever it is they're analyzing can wait," Waverly said. "They'll be sending down the samples of Mr. Kuryakin's blood down there, and I want you to stop whatever it is that's in progress to test the blood samples—and then test the bagels. If anyone gives you any trouble for interrupting anything, tell them to take it up with me."

"Yes, Sir."

"Miss Stevenson, I think those reports have told you everything they possibly can by this point in time."

"They have, Sir."

"Very well, then I want you to assist Mr. Dennell in the lab."

"…Me, Sir? In the lab?" she asked, slightly surprised.

"Sometimes, an extra pair of new eyes can catch things that would normally go unnoticed," Waverly said.

"If that's where you'd want me to go, then I'll go," she promised.

"Good. And as for you, Mr. Solo, you shall continue to remain here and look after Mr. Kuryakin once they permit you entry into Intensive Care. The others will keep you informed of their findings."

"Thank you, Sir."

Napoleon then fell silent as the others filed out. He was still looking through the glass, at his motionless partner, unaware that Waverly was still behind him until he cleared his throat.

"Sir?" he asked.

"There's something on your mind, isn't there? Besides the obvious, of course."

Napoleon paused, but then conceded that Waverly would not have gotten to where he was today had he not been perceptive when it came to reading people. He gave a nod.

"Before I left to question Marton, I'd had a feeling that I shouldn't have left Illya here alone," he confessed. "It was a persistent, nagging feeling, but I chalked it up to a lack of sleep—especially since Illya encouraged me to go pick up the trail before it got cold. So I left… And now he's like this."

"Well, if his health took a turn for the worse, you can hardly blame your presence or absence for that," Waverly said.

"I'm still not entirely convinced that's what happened," Napoleon admitted. "It still seems unbelievable that Illya could go from bouncing back to… this."

Baba Yaga meowed loudly again a few times, and Napoleon absently picked her up to hold her close.

"I just can't shake the feeling that if I'd just stayed, things wouldn't have gotten this bad. Something happened—something that I could have prevented." He paused. "I could have probably prevented him getting shot last night in the first place if I'd just been there with him. I should have told him that we should have gone together—it's what we always do when we get back to New York after a mission."

"You mustn't be too hard on yourself, Mr. Solo—you did, after all, undergo physical torture; you wouldn't have had your wits about you as well as you usually do."

"Illya shouldn't have had to suffer for that—neither his reputation, nor his health," Napoleon said, flatly.

"I fear the tongues will continue to wag no matter what we say," Waverly sighed. "Therefore, for the moment, just focus on getting Mr. Kuryakin through this. I believe your presence is something he needs right now."

Napoleon knew that was Waverly's experience talking, and he bit his lip for a moment before deciding to go ahead with his query.

"Sir, you and Marton-"

"—Are both similar and different in a lot of ways to you and Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly interrupted. "So if you are inquiring as to whether or not your partnership with Mr. Kuryakin will end the same way as Victor and myself, that's rather up to the two of you, not us. Victor and I had different priorities—priorities that inevitably led to the two of us parting ways. Of course, whatever priorities you and Mr. Kuryakin have will not matter if he doesn't survive this. At the moment, it would seem that the fate of your partnership is up to him and the strength of his will to live." His expression softened. "Do alert me if there is any change, Mr. Solo."

"Yes, Sir," Napoleon said, quietly. Waverly wasn't being blindly optimistic. In fact, Napoleon wasn't sure whether or not his own determination that Illya would pull through was optimism or just plain begging for it to be so.

He glanced back through the glass, listening to Waverly's footsteps walking away.

 _Don't let this be the end of us_ , _Tovarisch_ , he silently pleaded. _There's so much for us to do still_.

It was out of his hands for the moment; all he could do now was watch and wait—and hope.


	6. Act VI: Don't Give Up

_Notes: Mandy's comment about the field agents' personnel files having false information in the event of THRUSH stealing them is my way of explaining the absolutely unbelievable heights on THRUSH's info cards on Napoleon and Illya in "The THRUSH Roulette Affair." The blood type angle is ksturf's headcanon. And the case about the THRUSH submersible that Napoleon reminisces about is from a fic I haven't yet written…_

* * *

"I still don't know why Mr. Waverly thinks I'd be of any use down here in the lab," Mandy sighed a few hours later, as she watched the samples of blood going through the analyzer. She and George were getting some dirty looks from the other technicians, particularly for having stopped whatever had been being run before; they had set that analysis-in-progress aside and had run the blood samples that had been left beside the machine. "All I've done so far is watch you do everything."

"Well, it's fairly simple to run an analysis—mostly automatic," George said. "You can learn it easily. Maybe that's why Mr. Waverly wanted you here. I'm sure he has a good reason for it, anyway, like he had a good reason for wanting me to pretend to be a double agent… He knows what he's doing."

"But I'm a translator," Mandy protested. "Why would I need to learn how to use lab equipment?"

"Potential transfer?"

"Ugh, no; I'm done with wanting to be transferred," Mandy said. "After what happened last time?"

"Well, maybe…" George trailed off as the machine signaled the end of its cycle. "Hey, it's done!"

He quickly printed out the results and glanced over them, and frowned.

"What is it?" Mandy asked. "What's wrong with Illya?"

"…According to this, nothing," George said, baffled.

"…What!?" Mandy exclaimed. "Did you see the way Illya looked back there? That isn't 'nothing', George!"

"Well, I know that, and you know that, but the analysis machine doesn't!" George said. "Look, see for yourself!"

He handed the printout to Mandy, and it was soon her turn to frown.

"This is wrong," she stated, plainly.

"Well, obviously-"

"No," Mandy said. "It's the wrong blood! Look at the type—type B."

"…That's correct, isn't it?" George asked. "I could have sworn that Illya's file says he has type B blood?"

"That file also says that he's five-foot-ten-and-a-half," Mandy said, flatly. "The only way he'd ever be that tall is if he was wearing my heels. His real blood type is type O."

"…Why would Illya's file have false information?" George asked, confused now.

"In the event that our personnel files would be stolen by THRUSH," Mandy replied. "All of the field agents have false information in their files—Napoleon's says he's got type A blood and is six-foot-two with hazel eyes." She gave George a look. "He's type O, too, and, as we all know, he is nowhere near six feet. And his eyes are brown."

"Oh," George said. "Well, that explains the mix-up; Medical must have sent the type B blood thinking Illya's blood type was B from the file."

"No, that's not it," Mandy said. "The personnel department has the fake information, but for obvious reasons, Medical has the real information. I know all this, George; I'm the one who translates the field agents' health reports to Portuguese for the other Medical branches whenever they go to Rio or Lisbon."

"…Well, now we know why Mr. Waverly wanted you down here," George commented. "Because I certainly wouldn't have figured this out. Okay, so, this isn't Illya's blood. …But that leaves us with an important, unanswered question."

"…Where _is_ Illya's blood?" Mandy finished.

"Right," George said, and he wandered over to the group of Section VIII technicians, some of whom were chatting while the others were busy with their own experiments. "Hey, Everyone?"

A few people looked his way, but most of them didn't give him a glance.

"Hey!" Mandy barked, and that soon got everyone's attention. She gave George the nod to go ahead.

"Um, thanks. Uh, does anyone know where those blood samples came from? The ones we just analyzed?" he asked.

Most of the technicians hadn't been paying attention, but one of them—Travers-spoke up.

"They were sent here from Medical, I assume," Travers said. "Ask Mills; he would know the circumstances."

Mills, who had been busy with some work of his own, looked up at the mention of his name.

"The blood samples? The messenger brought those down from Medical; I signed for them and put them over by the machine since they were for analysis."

"…The messenger?" Mandy repeated. She turned to George. "The same messenger who had been accusing Illya of being a traitor last night? George, I think there's some sort of cover-up going on here. Someone, for some reason, doesn't want us analyzing Illya's blood. And I think that someone might be the messenger. Thanks, Mills!" She paused as she turned to him, now noticing the bandages on Mills's arm, visible just under the sleeve of his lab coat. "What happened to you?"

"Just a cut. Nothing to worry about," Mills said, with a wave of his hand.

"Oh, okay," she said, and she turned back to George again. "We need to go get to Medical and have them give us some blood samples directly. And then we need to have Mark and April question the messenger."

"Have us question him?" April asked, entering the lab with Mark. "Why?"

One explanation later, both Mark and April were looking grim.

"Well, that explains why we didn't get any information on any outside threat being responsible for this," Mark said, darkly.

"…You think it could be more than just a misunderstanding?" George asked. "You really think it's an inside job?"

"I hope it isn't more than just a misunderstanding," April said. "But we need to make sure before we start lobbing accusations everywhere. First, we need to go to Medical and make sure that you get the right blood to analyze. Secondly, we need to inspect the bullet that was removed from Illya. Mills!"

"…Ma'am?" he asked.

"Can you get the bullet from the evidence locker and see if it's from an U.N.C.L.E.-issued weapon?"

"I can try, Ma'am," Mills said, and he darted out of the lab.

"And we'd best head to Medical," Mark said. "George, you and Mandy wait here; April and I will go."

"And we'd better tell Napoleon," she said. "…If it is an inside job, then he should know that he shouldn't let Illya out of his sight again." Her gut twisted slightly. "Assuming Illya pulls through."

"He's got to pull through," Mark said. "If we lose him, we lose Napoleon, too. No two ways about it."

April nodded, and the two of them headed to Medical in silence. They paused outside the intensive care ward to see Baba Yaga pacing the waiting area; Napoleon wasn't there, and it was as they looked through the glass that they saw Napoleon sitting down beside Illya's bed, gently taking his hand. Illya had an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, which was connected to a large cylinder of pure oxygen, but, other than that and the instruments to measure his vitals, he didn't seem to be connected to anything else.

"They stabilized Illya," April said, relieved.

"I don't think Medical will let us in there to talk to Napoleon, though," Mark said. "Especially since we're not as close to Illya as he is."

"Oh, I can't bear to ask him to leave to talk to us when he's only just been given permission to be with him," April said. "He needs to be with Illya, but he also needs to know about our suspicions."

"Well, for the moment, they are only suspicions; perhaps it wouldn't be prudent to worry him about something that may not be true—at least, I hope it isn't true," Mark said. "I say we inform him once we have concrete proof."

April nodded.

"And if it is an inside job, Illya should be safe as long as he isn't alone," she said. "And we know that Napoleon won't be leaving Illya's side anytime soon."

Mark nodded, as well, and then indicated the doctor, who was leaving the ward, and they went to speak to him. The doctor was certain he had sent the right blood samples down with the messenger the first time, but did have another vial of Illya's blood to send down with them directly.

As they left, Mark and April looked back through the glass once more, watching as Napoleon talked softly to his partner.

* * *

It was an odd place between consciousness and unconsciousness that Illya had found himself. This wasn't a new experience for him, by any means, but it was never pleasant, either. And this time felt like the worst; whatever this poison was, it was painful and doing its job. Worst of all, the Medical staff hadn't seemed to be able to figure out what was really going on; Illya had vaguely been aware of the doctor telling Napoleon that Illya's chances of lasting the night were about fifty-fifty, but that if he could last the night, his condition would likely improve.

And so Napoleon had sat down and held his hand, and started talking to him—just talking and talking and talking.

"You're going to last the night, aren't you?" he heard Napoleon say. "You've got to. Illya…" He heard him pause as his voice cracked. "I shouldn't have left you alone. I don't know why I did… I'm sorry, Illya. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry that this happened to you… and that people still think you're somehow to blame for our last mission." Napoleon paused again. "The doctor said that it could be that your worsening condition was because of the despair you were feeling from all of those rumors—he said it wouldn't have been the first time he'd seen an agent's condition worsen from stress. But I think I know you better than that, Illya. You've always been stronger than that."

Illya wished he could wake up and tell Napoleon that he was, indeed, stronger than that—and warn him about whoever it was who had done this to him.

"You remember that time we both forced into that broken-down THRUSH submersible and dropped into the water?" Napoleon continued. "And we were just stuck in that pod, sinking, unable to get it to work and running out of air… We both thought it was over that time before our reconnaissance team spotted us and bailed us out of that one… Getting out of that one was a fluke."

How could Illya have forgotten? They had hardly dared to believe it when the U.N.C.L.E. submarine started towing them back towards the surface. But for a frightening amount of time, it really had looked like the end.

"…I guess, even though we thought we were doomed, there was some comfort in the fact that we were together," Napoleon went on. His grip on Illya's hand tightened. "So, you can't let it end here, _Tovarisch_. You hear me? Not like this. If we're checking out, we're checking out together."

Illya realized what his partner was trying to do—strengthen Illya's resolve to fight and last through the night.

Napoleon was quiet for a while, but the slight tremble of his hand told Illya that his partner was trying to keep his emotions in check; evidently, Illya's physical condition was as bad as he felt.

…A far cry from his poisoner's promise that Napoleon would gladly stand back and watch him die after finding about Illya's alleged treachery. Illya almost wished that his attacker was here to see how Napoleon was really reacting to the results of their handiwork—almost. He didn't want that attacker anywhere near him or Napoleon; nor was there any way to predict how the attacker would react.

Napoleon still held onto his hand now, but now his other hand was gently brushing a cold cloth over Illya's forehead. In his current state, Illya could barely feel it, but what he could feel was pleasant indeed.

"You know you're the best thing that's ever happened to me?" Napoleon said, as he continued to wipe Illya's forehead. "You and Baba Yaga. Maybe it's selfish of me to say, but I like things the way they are. I need you, Illya. And so does Baba Yaga. We need you to pull through."

 _The best thing_ … Illya silently repeated. He knew it wasn't just Napoleon using hyperbole this time; his partner truly meant it.

Illya found himself wishing that he could wake up—that he could say or do something to reassure Napoleon that he would be alright. But the most he could do was only twitch his fingers feebly, and only once.

Napoleon still felt it, though, and his grip on Illya's hand tightened as a spark of hope ignited in him.

"That's the way, _Tovarisch_ ," he encouraged. "Don't give up. You keep fighting—keep living."

Illya would certainly try. He had been planning to keep fighting regardless. Now he just had even more motivation.

And so, he continued to lie there, every cell in his body fighting a war against the poison in his system. And he continued to listen to Napoleon as his partner talked on and on, taking comfort and drawing strength from his partner.

It wasn't over yet.


	7. Act VII: Things Happen in Threes

Illya wasn't sure for how long he remained in this state between consciousness and unconsciousness, but after what seemed like an eternity, his eyes opened at last.

It was daylight, and Napoleon was still by his side; it was painfully obvious, even at first glance, that Napoleon had just spent his second sleepless night in a row by his side, and Illya couldn't help but feel a rush of gratitude towards his partner.

But whatever weariness that Napoleon was feeling vanished as it registered to him that Illya was awake at last. A grin lit up his tired features as he clutched Illya's hand again.

"Took you long enough!" he chided. "You're never this patient when I'm the one in Medical, let me tell you…"

Illya knew that Napoleon was only channeling his worry through his quips, as he often did.

"But, anyway, I'm glad you're awake," Napoleon said, gently wiping Illya's face with a cold cloth again. "Well, I guess that's the understatement of the century…" He let his mask slip for an instant. "You really gave me a scare, Illya. For a moment, I thought I really was going to lose you… I still don't understand what could have happened to you. You were fine when I left…"

Illya tried to speak—tried to warn Napoleon about the poisoner. But only a feeble squeak issued from his lips, and even that was muffled by the oxygen mask.

"Shhhh," Napoleon instructed, gently placing a hand to Illya's face. "You've got to conserve your strength. Just keep lying there and resting. I'll make sure you get everything you need." He gave him a wan smile. "I know it's no fun getting your nutrients through an IV drip, but, believe me, I look forward to seeing you down a whole meal as much as you're looking forward to eating it."

Illya let out his breath quietly, but with noticeable frustration, wishing that he could communicate the seriousness of what was going on. Napoleon's smile faded as it became clear that something was really bothering his partner. Had Napoleon not been sleep-deprived for the last 48 hours, he probably would have been able to pick up on the exact nature of Illya's distress—their connection was strong enough that there were times when words were not needed to exchange information.

But in spite of his attempts to hide his own condition, it was clear that Napoleon was tired and exhausted, and not at the top of his game.

All he could do was gently reassure his partner that things would be okay.

"Whatever it is," he said, softly. "We'll get through it together. You have my word, _Tovarisch_."

Napoleon knew the frustrations and fears of recovering from something this serious; he'd had his own moments, after all. Unable to move… unable to speak… It was as though you were a prisoner in your own body—feeling useless and vulnerable. But, as bad as it felt, seeing his partner in this state was far worse, and he would have gladly traded places with him if it meant sparing Illya this pain.

"You've made it this far," Napoleon went on. "Just rest some more, and I'm sure you'll be able to get enough strength to talk again soon-"

He was cut off as his communicator whistled. He flinched at the loud noise and switched the device on.

"Solo here," he said, quietly. "What is it?"

"Mr. Solo?" a voice said over the channel. "Mr. Dennell requests you to come down to the lab right away."

Napoleon stared at the communicator in befuddlement.

"…Can't he just tell me over the channel?" he asked.

"He can't, Sir; he can't risk saying this on an open channel—or even a phone line," the caller said. "It concerns you, Mr. Solo—your health and well-being. You really need to come down to the lab."

"…Illya _just_ woke up," Napoleon protested. "Whatever it is can wait. Or have George come up here—or send someone.

"He can't, Mr. Solo; they can't risk it."

"Can't risk it? Can't risk what?" Napoleon asked.

"I can't say anything else, Mr. Solo," the speaker said. "He hasn't told me. But it's vital for you to see Mr. Dennell in the lab right away!"

Napoleon let out an extremely vexed sigh.

"Okay, you tell George he's got to be able to explain everything to me in exactly two minutes, because that's all I'm going to be able to give him."

He closed the channel before the other speaker could respond, and was about to get up when Illya suddenly summoned as much of his strength as he could and clutched at Napoleon's hand, giving a feeble moan.

Napoleon glanced down in surprise, and was even more startled to see the desperation in Illya's eyes.

 _Napoleon, please do not leave me here alone!_ the Russian silently pleaded. _Please! It might be a trap by my poisoner!_

Napoleon was still off his game and couldn't quite pick up on the message—though it was clear to him that Illya did not want him to go.

"Hey," he said, trying to give him a reassuring smile. "You heard what I said. Two minutes. And then I'll be right back here."

Illya moaned again, trying to tighten his feeble grip on Napoleon's hand in utter desperation, his heart monitor suddenly spiking. Napoleon felt his heart break; Illya had never acted like this before. True, he always preferred Napoleon's presence during his recovery, just as Napoleon preferred his, but this was more than just preference.

This was fear. Illya was visibly terrified, and it wasn't something that Napoleon had seen in a very long time.

Napoleon sat back down now, and Illya looked relieved, the heart monitor going back down to where it had been before. He was calm until Napoleon's communicator suddenly went off again.

"I changed my mind; I'm not going down!" he snapped over the line.

"Mr. Solo, your life is in danger!" the voice from earlier warned him. "Please, Mr. Solo—you have to see Mr. Dennell in the lab right away!"

The urgency in the speaker's voice sparked a private argument in Napoleon's mind; his sympathetic side did not want to leave Illya when Illya was clearly begging him to stay, while his rational side argued that if his own life was in danger, then it would be difficult—if not impossible—to keep Illya safe if his own state of well-being was compromised.

"Okay, I'm on my way down," Napoleon conceded. Like a reflex, he felt Illya clutch at his hand again and give another weak protest. Napoleon closed the channel and looked back at his partner. "I know, Illya, I know. I don't want to leave you, but I need to be in good condition if I'm going to be able to help you. Please understand, _Tovarisch_. I will be back in two minutes—I swear."

Illya let out a feeble moan yet again, and Napoleon felt the knife in his heart twist again. He looked around for a moment, and then called to a passing nurse.

"Hey, can you wait here with Illya for just two minutes?" he asked. "I'll be right back, and I don't want him to be alone."

The nurse shrugged and agreed, sitting down in the chair that Napoleon had been sitting in.

"Thanks," he said, sincerely, and he gently touched Illya's face again, wincing as he noticed the heart monitor spiking again. "I'm really sorry, Illya. But I will be right back—I swear."

Illya let out one more quiet protest, and Napoleon felt an immense wave of guilt crash over him.

"It's alright, Mr. Solo," the nurse said. "I'll watch over him."

Napoleon nodded and headed out of the intensive care ward. Baba Yaga yowled in protest as she realized that Napoleon was leaving.

"You, too?" he sighed. "I'm sorry…"

The cat protested again as Napoleon left, heading for the lab, where he saw George and Mandy going over the results of the analyzer.

"Napoleon!" George exclaimed. "Thank goodness you're here!"

"What's the big deal, George?" he asked, wearily. "I have to get back to Illya as soon as poss-"

"He's been poisoned!" Mandy exclaimed.

Napoleon froze, stunned.

"… _How_? With what!? Is there an antidote!?"

"Finding out what it is requires a bit more analysis," George said. "We're inspecting the toxin further to find that out, as well as if there's an antidote available; it shouldn't be too long now. But, even from the preliminary results, it looks as though Illya was given some sort of biochemical poison that mimics an infection. It's why Medical couldn't figure out what was wrong. If we hadn't done the analysis, we probably would never have figured out that it was poison and gone on assuming that Illya had fallen sick."

"Biochemical…" Napoleon repeated, silently going over the last 48 hours. When nothing seemed to make sense, he went back further. "…Would Gurnius have been storing some sort of biochemical weapons that Illya might have been exposed to when he went undercover as Nexor?"

"That seems to be the most likely way," George said.

"So that's what you meant about it possibly affecting me, too, since I was in that same facility…"

"…What?" George asked, baffled. But any discussion was preempted by April and Mark returning to the lab.

"…Napoleon? What are you doing here!?" April asked, surprised to see Napoleon in the lab.

"Well—"

"Did you get the bullet?" George asked, cutting Napoleon off.

"No," Mark said, darkly. "That bullet has been stolen."

"What!?" Napoleon exclaimed. "The bullet that Medical took out of Illya?"

"Yes," April said. "I had asked Mills to get the bullet from the evidence locker so that we could see where it was issued from. He said it wasn't there; Mark and I spent the entire night looking for it after we got the right blood sample for George to test. And _that's_ another story altogether."

"The first blood samples had been the wrong blood type; they'd been switched. At first, we thought it was a mistake, but now it's clear that someone had switched the blood vials so that we'd think there was nothing wrong with Illya," Mandy said.

Napoleon looked from Mark and April to George and Mandy, the realization hitting him like a pile of bricks.

"It wasn't Gurnius at all; it was an inside job…" he said. His eyes widened. "Oh, God-that's what Illya was trying to tell me…!"

"He's awake?" Mandy asked.

"Yeah; I even said that when George had me paged over Channel D."

"…I didn't have you paged," George said, his eyes wide.

Napoleon didn't wait another moment longer; he turned around and bolted out the lab door, yelling over his shoulder for someone to call security and have them throw the alarm as Mark and April followed behind him, their Specials drawn. The three of them nearly passed a hissing and yowling Baba Yaga in the corridor, who saw that they were coming and turned back around to revert course back to Medical, all four of them hoping that they weren't already too late.

* * *

Illya had been lying there, unable to stop worrying since Napoleon had left. His pulse on the monitor was clearly too fast for the nurse's liking; she was trying to keep him calm, but it didn't seem to assuage his fears.

The nurse's attention was suddenly diverted when they both heard Baba Yaga screeching outside, and everything happened in rapid succession after that. She gasped as the door to the intensive care unit swung open to reveal the masked figure from the previous day, but before she could reach for the alarm button, the masked figure rushed in and knocked her unconscious with a karate chop to her shoulders.

After unceremoniously throwing the unconscious nurse to the ground, the attacker now approached Illya, who was feebly trying to move his hand to press the call button by his bed. The attacker quickly put a stop to that, pulling his hand away and tying his arms and torso down to the bed again like before.

"You _survived_ the poison?" the attacker hissed. "Why can't you just die like a normal human being? …Well, I guess it's because you aren't normal. The human part is probably debatable, too."

The attacker clutched at Illya's neck with a gloved hand; Illya could only weakly moan in protest as the heart monitor sped up further.

"Look at that. You're actually _scared_. Well, you ought to be. You're about to be found out." The attacker tightened his grip on Illya's neck. "I don't know how you did it—you've brainwashed Solo completely. Somehow, you've gotten him so under your control, he ignores warnings to his own health. I'll snap him out of it soon enough. I wish he could have realized it before you were dead, but I see now that as long as you're alive, he's never going to break free from your control."

The attacker released Illya's neck and took a small pair of scissors and cut the plastic tube connecting Illya's oxygen mask to the oxygen tank. The attacker then took a large clamp and clamped shut the part of the tubing still attached to Illya's mask. Illya's eyes widened in panic as his air supply was completely cut off.

"You survived a bullet. You survived poison," the attacker hissed. "But not even you can survive without air-"

The alarms began to ring, cutting the attacker off. The attacker swore and fled, already shedding their disguise as they retreated, but Illya was in too much distress from his lack of air to notice. Already, his vision was beginning to blur and darken.

" _ILLYA_!?"

Napoleon was barreling back into the intensive care unit, his own heart nearly stopping as he saw Illya tied to the bed with a clamp over his severed air tube.

"No, no, no, no, no…" he murmured, removing the now-deadly mask from his partner's face.

To his immense relief, Illya gasped for breath, breathing in and out as deeply as he could, given his weakened condition. As Napoleon now got to work untying the rope binding Illya to the bed, Mark did a search of the intensive care ward as April tended to the knocked-out nurse; Baba Yaga meowed, sneaking her way into the ward as she noticed that no one seemed to remember that she wasn't supposed to be there.

Napoleon now removed the rope as he finally got it untied, and, once again placed his now-shaking hand on the side of Illya's face and took Illya's hand with his other hand, clutching it tightly.

"Oh, Illya…" he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

But Illya looked up at him with a weak, relieved smile and gently clutched at Napoleon's hand again.

Baba Yaga now curled up by Illya's side again, keeping a watchful eye on her human family. Napoleon glanced from her to Illya, and nodded at his partner.

"Okay…" he said. "Mark?"

"Aside from the discarded disguise the attacker was wearing, there's nothing here," Mark said. "Whoever it was knew how to disappear."

"Our nurse seems like she'll be alright, but I'm going to take her down to the general ward and have her looked at by one of the doctors," April said.

"Okay. Mark, get George and Mandy here, make a check with Security, and then you and April get right back here, too."

"Right."

"Of course."

The two of them left with the nurse, and Napoleon turned his attention back to his partner.

"Illya," he said. "I know about the poison. It was an inside job—the shooting, the poison, this…" Napoleon swallowed the lump in his throat. "I shouldn't have left you alone—if I'd been with you, none of this would have happened."

Illya gave his head a slight shake. His attacker hated him enough to have continued pursuing him; it hadn't been a matter of if, but when.

"This time, _Tovarisch_ ," Napoleon said. "I won't leave you. You can rest now and keep fighting that poison. I'll be here. I promise."

And Illya gave a weak nod. He knew Napoleon would watch over him now with a vengeance.

Now, he could finally afford to rest and regain his strength.


	8. Act VIII: Difficult Decisions

Illya awoke some time later upon hearing hushed voices; he opened his eyes to see Napoleon talking with Mark, April, Mandy, George, who had apparently arrived not too long ago. Baba Yaga was still by Illya's side, alert in case anyone was approaching from outside the ward.

"Did you manage to find an antidote for the poison?" Napoleon was asking. He was just barely refraining from pleading.

"…Well," George sighed. "The biochemical toxins in Illya's bloodstream are some sort of cocktail. Any sort of antidote might interfere with Illya's recovery; it's far too risky to chance. His best bet is sweating it all out of his system. I'm sorry, Napoleon; I wish I could have done more."

"You did the best you could," Napoleon said, sounding disappointed. "It's partly thanks to you that we figured out what was going on. It's up to Illya to keep fighting now." He paused as Illya now reached for Napoleon's hand and gave it a quick squeeze, as though reassuring him that he would continue to keep on fighting. "…Illya!"

"How are you feeling?" Mark asked.

Illya managed a weak nod, and Napoleon managed a wan smile, this time, understanding what Illya was trying to say.

"Well, it's good that he's conscious again," George said. "That he lasted the night was the first big step—and this is the second one. I think he'll be able to make a full recovery from this."

"Of course he will," Mark said. "He'd never go down without a fight."

"…But it also means that the greatest danger to him now is this inside threat," April realized.

"And what steps have Security taken to deal with this?" Napoleon asked. "I asked them to seal off the main exit."

"They've done that," April said. "But no one attempted to leave the building—even after the alarm went off."

"And Mr. Waverly has been secured in his office suite, which has been sealed off to protect him," Mark said. "Aside from his private line, he's more or less unreachable—which makes you the acting leader of U.N.C.L.E. New York, Napoleon. The main exit will remain sealed until you give the order to reopen it. Mr. Waverly's office will remain sealed until the traitor is caught."

Napoleon exhaled.

"I don't know if I'm the right one for this," he muttered. "I've been off base about everything since I got back to New York; I should never have left Illya alone, and I did three times—and each time, something nearly happened."

"But you had no reason to suspect that someone within U.N.C.L.E. would do this to him," Mandy pointed out.

"Mark has seniority over me; why doesn't he take over for now?" Napoleon said, still shaking his head.

"I would if I could, Chum, but the fact of the matter is that Mr. Waverly promoted you, not me. And he had a good reason for it. In a time of crisis like this, he wanted you in charge of everything."

Napoleon looked at their friends surrounding them, and then looked back to his partner and their cat. Illya managed another weak nod, but this one was directed at Napoleon as a vote of confidence.

"Okay," he said, and he turned to the others. "This is my show now, and I'm going to run it, and I'm going to see to it that we find the one responsible for this."

The others murmured in agreement.

"Has anyone attempted to leave since the exit was sealed, or inquired about leaving?" Napoleon queried.

"No one has attempted to come in or out," April said. "And as for suspects, we're still compiling that list. I can say, however, that the messenger has an alibi and, therefore, can be removed from it."

"What is it?"

"He's been in the microfiche department all day and hasn't left; he's been busy screaming abuses at everyone for not getting the microfiches ready for delivery—including during the time when Illya's attacker was in here," she said, a noticeable trace of disgust creeping into her voice. "The messenger may be an insensitive, unlikeable creep, but that's his only crime."

"Once we've caught Illya's poisoner, I'll see to finding out just how much job security the messenger has," Napoleon promised. "I would like to get the exit unsealed as soon as possible, though; it's clear that the poisoner won't be drawing any attention to themselves and will probably be leaving with the crowd…"

"…Unless they're going to try again," George said, quietly. "I mean… they've already tried three days in a row."

"…You're right," Napoleon conceded. "Mark, is there any way to seal off Medical—at least this Intensive Care ward?"

Mark shook his head.

"Though I understand your reasoning for it, it just isn't feasible," he said. "Medical staff are on rotation, and they need access to this ward to send people to check in on Illya, as well as bringing in any other emergency cases, should they turn up."

Napoleon sighed, glancing at Illya, who was looking expectantly up at him.

"He's not safe here," Napoleon realized aloud.

"We know," Mark said, sympathetically. "We can have a 24-hour guard posted here—however many people you want…"

"That isn't foolproof," Napoleon replied, shaking his head. "I've got to get Illya out of here."

"Out of Intensive Care?" Mandy asked. "Napoleon, you can't! Look at him! What if something happens to him, and his condition worsens to the point that he needs emergency care? That's the entire reason why he's here! I know Illya means everything to you, but you're not medically qualified to help him if that were to happen!"

"No…" April said, quietly. "Mandy, he's right."

"He is?"

"The attacker has already proven they can get into Medical—twice," Mark agreed. "And we know they can probably access any of our devices and weapons—tranquilizers, sleeping gas, guns… Even though we've restricted access to the armory and to the equipment lab, they've probably had a small arsenal accessible to them for a while—including the gun they used on the first night."

"All they'd need to do is throw a canister of sleeping gas in here, and we'd all be knocked out and unable to help Illya," George added.

Mandy silently nodded, conceding.

"I know I'm taking a risk with Illya," Napoleon admitted. "Just like he knew he was taking a risk with me during our last mission. It's what we do—what all field agents do: making the tough decisions to ensure our partner's survival. It's an unspoken agreement you have with your partner—that you'll do what you have to in order to keep them alive… give them the best chance they can get."

He glanced at Illya again, who responded with another feeble nod. He was more than willing to trust Napoleon, just as Napoleon had been willing to trust him. Neither of them would have made it this far without that trust.

Emboldened a bit and regaining some of his lost confidence, Napoleon slipped back into his mantle as leader.

"Okay," he said. "We're going to do this right. And we're going to need everyone in on this—not a word of this gets out to anyone else. Mr. Waverly's private line might be tapped, and you four are the only ones I can trust right now with something this important. But what I'm planning does have its risks—even if I'm in charge, I can't force any of you into doing this."

"Napoleon, if we had wanted to bail out, we'd have done it once we'd realized there was an inside threat. This isn't just about stopping a rogue agent; this is about helping Illya," April insisted, and the others agreed.

"Okay," Napoleon said, nodding. "The attacker is smart enough not to make a move as long as the exit is sealed. As soon as I get Illya out of here, I want Mark and April to tell everyone that I gave the order to unseal the exit."

"Do you want us to actually have the exit unsealed?" April asked.

"…Yeah," Napoleon said, after a moment to think it over. "The attacker might test and make sure that it really is unsealed. We can't trap them if they suspect the trap." He looked to George. "And you, George… You need to play me."

"…What?" George asked.

"We need decoys for both Illya and myself in this room. You could pass as me from the back."

"Oh, gotcha. …Who's going to be Illya?"

Napoleon glanced silently at Mark's sandy-colored hair.

"…He'll need a wig, but he'll do."

Mark shrugged, but nodded, and the faintest traces of a smile made their way onto Illya's face at the mental image of Mark in a blond mop-top wig.

"April, you're going to be on guard duty outside Intensive Care; if we don't have someone out here, it'll look too easy," Napoleon said. "Don't let anyone in that ward; if one of the Medical staff claims to need to check on Illya, tell them to come later."

"Right," she said.

"And what about me?" Mandy asked.

"You need to be our eyes and ears—walk around the building and check for any signs of suspicious activity," Napoleon said. "Come back here and give frequent reports to April about what's going on, but try not to use Channel D or any other communications. And Mandy? I want you and George armed with some sort of protective devices—sleeping gas cartridges and smokescreen pellets would be best. And wave that fake gun of yours around if you have to, but don't try to pick a fight with them."

Mandy nodded.

Baba Yaga now meowed at Napoleon, gently bumping his arm with her forehead. Napoleon smiled at her and gently gave her a few more scritches.

"Of course I'll look after Illya, my dear," he said. "But I need you to stay here. We need to make it seem as though Illya is here—and you're a part of that illusion. We'll see you again very soon."

Baba Yaga meowed, sounded rather vexed, but seemed to realize that protests weren't going to work this time. Napoleon gave her a few more scritches to placate her and then turned back to the others.

"Our attacker is likely to try again if we can successfully maintain this illusion," he said. "And whoever they are, we have to assume that they won't care about any collateral damage. Be careful—all of you. I want them alive and tranquilized, if you can, but if you need to kill them to protect yourselves, then do it."

The four of them nodded.

"There's just one flaw in this plan," George realized, going over it. "You don't want the exit unsealed until after you and Illya are out?"

"Right. The attacker needs to think that Illya is still here."

"…Okay, but… How are you going to get him out?"

"Through the window," Napoleon said. "That's why I only had the exit sealed. I can't take my car; it'd be noticed. But I need you, Mandy, to go through that window and to the nearest pay phone."

Mandy blinked as Napoleon handed her a folded piece of paper.

"You'll call that number and deliver that message to a Miss Janet Jerrod. With any luck, she'll be able to get a cab here so that Illya and I can leave unnoticed." He paused, and looked from Illya to the others. "Look… There's no way I'll ever be able to thank you enough for all this-"

"Napoleon, you don't have to," April said, giving them both a smile. "I don't think you've realized how much you've done for all of the field agents as the head of Section II—you and Illya."

"She's right," Mandy said. "And it's not just Section II, either—it's all of us. Whenever there's trouble here in the building, you and Illya are always the first ones to stick your necks out for us."

"And neither of you ask for anything in return, either," George said. "No matter what you go through."

"In other words, this is long overdue," Mark finished.

Napoleon stared at them for a moment, a lump growing in his throat as Illya now gave his hand a faint squeeze again.

"Thank you," he said, quietly. "And even if, with all of our efforts, this doesn't work, I just want you to know that I'll— _we'll_ still be grateful."

There was a moment of somber silence, but all of them nodded. Napoleon then turned back to his partner.

"Ready?" he asked, softly.

Illya gave a firm nod, and Napoleon returned it.

"Let's move."

They began to put the plan into motion at once; April helped Mandy go out the window to make the phone call as Napoleon and George helped transfer the EKG electrodes from Illya to Mark.

"Just hang in there, _Tovarisch_ ," Napoleon said, as Illya silently watched them all work. "We'll save you yet."


	9. Act IX: Elusive Target

Napoleon was relieved once Illya was in the relative safety of their apartment. He was in bed, with the IV drip beside him (Napoleon had taken that, too, much to the consternation of the cab driver that Janet had hired), and Napoleon made sure that Illya was comfortable and tucked in before returning to the living room, where Janet was waiting.

"How is he?" she asked.

"Sleeping," Napoleon said, with a sigh. "He needs it, though. How much do I owe you for the cab fare?"

"Oh, don't bother about that; just let me know when he's feeling better," Janet replied, waving him off. "…That girl I spoke to—Mandy… She said that Illya had been attacked by someone on your side. Why?"

"I wish I knew," Napoleon said, darkly. "If Illya knows, he hasn't been able to tell me; he hasn't had the strength. The poison's done a number on him; he only started getting better since this morning—and the attacker nearly got him again later. I just hope his recovery continues to improve in spite of this setback."

Janet gave him a sympathetic look.

"And how have you been holding up?"

"Me? Nothing's happened to me; Illya's the one who's been hurt."

"And so, again, I ask you—how have you been holding up?" she repeated.

Napoleon blinked, and gave her a wan smile.

"Do I look that bad?"

"Well, aside from the fact that you've got circles under your eyes that I recognize from a worry-induced all-nighter, I know how close you two are. It's like those stories you hear about two people being so close that if something happens to one, it affects the other. I saw that with the two of you last time."

Napoleon exhaled, but nodded.

"Yeah, you'd be right. As for how I'm doing… Well, as good as can be expected, I guess."

Janet nodded.

"Hang in there—both of you," she said.

"We'll try," Napoleon said. "Look, ah, I don't mean to be rude, but I really should be with him right now."

"Oh, of course; I'm outta here," she said, heading for the door, and paused as she was halfway out. "…You know, he's really lucky to have you."

"…I'm lucky to have him."

"Well, of course it'd go both ways, wouldn't it?" she said, with an encouraging smile. "Bye."

Napoleon said his goodbyes and locked up after she had left, and then returned to the bedroom to be by his partner's side.

"She's right, you know," he said, gently brushing Illya's hair back. "We really are lucky to have each other. …I don't know where I'd be without you."

Illya was mumbling in his sleep, and, at first, Napoleon thought his partner had been responding to him. But it was clear from the frightened tone of Illya's voice that he was responding to something in his fevered dream.

" _Nyet_ …" he squeaked, his voice still very weak. " _Nyet_ …! _Miloserdiye…_!"

"…Mercy?" Napoleon translated. His heart sunk in his chest. Was Illya dreaming about his attacker?

Illya's body was trembling, and Napoleon gently took another cold cloth and began to wipe his forehead.

"You're going to be okay, Illya," he whispered, encouragingly. "I'm here for you. Can you hear me?"

His partner was still trembling, but it had seemed to reduce at the sound of his voice. Illya's head even turned slightly to face him.

"N… Napo…?"

"Yeah, that's right," Napoleon said. "I'm right here."

Illya let out a quiet sigh and his expression did relax slightly. And Napoleon continued to talk to him again, taking hope that, slowly but surely, Illya was regaining his strength.

* * *

As the hours ticked by, George tried his best not to fidget as he sat in the chair Napoleon had previously occupied. Napoleon always carried himself with confidence, after all.

Well… Almost always. Napoleon hadn't been very confident at all a little while ago—in fact, it had been rather disconcerting to see. Napoleon was one of those people who if he was acting scared or unconfident, then everyone else had better follow suit.

George now let his shoulders slump, unsure of how to act.

"Something wrong?" Mark asked, quietly. He had the blanket up to his nose, revealing only his eyes and the blond wig that was covering his forehead with its bangs.

"Trying to figure out what Napoleon's poise would be," George replied, quietly. "He's normally always calm and cool about everything, but I didn't get that from him this time. Unless it was just me… But he really seemed shaken this time."

"Not just you, Chum. He really is shaken by this," Mark said. "It's no secret how close he and Illya are. But I imagine this whole thing is bringing back some really horrible memories for him."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you remember seven years ago—a few months after Illya had been transferred here as his partner?" Mark said. "Napoleon had gotten distracted and THRUSH had scarpered with Illya—they'd tortured him for three weeks before Napoleon found him again, still chained to a saltire."

"Ohh…" George said. "I kind of remember hearing about it… I didn't know either of them that well at the time…"

Mark gave a nod.

"I first worked with Napoleon when he started out here in Section II as a probationary agent, and had been keeping up with him ever since. The first time I ever saw his confidence take such a severe blow was the day he realized that Illya had suffered so much because he had been too distracted to provide him with the backup he had needed. And now, Illya was attacked three times with fatal intent because Napoleon hadn't been with him to stop it from happening. It must be some horrible sort of déjà vu Napoleon is feeling right now."

"Well, it's not his fault; they weren't on a mission now," George protested. "No one expected the threat to come from inside U.N.C.L.E.! Medical was where we thought Illya would be safe!"

"I know that, Chum. Trust me; I know. But Napoleon won't likely see it that way. He usually stays by Illya's side in Medical; the one time he didn't, this happened."

"Well, I can't pretend that I'd know how you field agents think," George admitted. "But if one of your partners had that happen, would you have thought the same thing?"

"…Probably," Mark admitted. He glanced through the glass at April, as if to double-check that she was alright, and then sunk down into the pillow. "Don't turn around; someone's talking to the girls outside."

George exhaled, nervously, but stayed in the same position in the chair.

Outside, Mills, the lab technician, was talking to April and Mandy.

"Kuryakin spends a lot of time in Section VIII," Mills was saying. "All of us were wondering how he's doing."

"He's stable," April said. "That's all we-"

She was cut off by a loud hiss; she and Mandy glanced down at Baba Yaga, who was standing with her back arched and ears flattened back.

"…Know," April finished, the connection already clicking in her mind.

"We'll be sure to let everyone know if there's any-" Mandy began, and she, too, was interrupted by a hiss. "—Change."

April's hand was unobtrusively going for her Special, and Mandy kept Mills talking.

"You will pass on my apologies to whoever was running that analysis before George and I showed up to commandeer everything, won't you?" she asked.

"Yeah, sure," Mills said. "Oh, that reminds me. Miss Dancer? Mr. Dennell wanted to see you and Miss Stevenson down in the lab right away."

"George is back in the lab?" Mandy asked, a chill going through her veins as she realized that the blatant lie had given them their guilty party.

"Yeah," Mills lied. "He's running Kuryakin's blood again, and he thinks he might have found an antidote after…" He trailed off and realized that, between the cat singling him out and something he had said, he had just given himself away. He reached for his pocket.

"Mandy, get back!" April ordered.

Mandy did as she was told, both her and Baba Yaga hiding behind a file cabinet as gunfire erupted between April and Mills. Mark sprung from the bed and began to fire, as well.

Mills took one look at Mark in the blond wig and cursed, turning around and bolting down the corridor. Instructing Mandy and George to remain hidden, April and Mark took off in pursuit, instructing Security to seal off the building exit again.

But as they arrived in the tailor shop front, they saw Del Floria staring at the now-sealed door; he turned back to them and indicated the direction of the door.

"You're looking for Mills? He stormed through here two seconds before the front door sealed!"

"No…!" April fumed. Frustrated, she ordered the door unsealed again, and she and Mark headed outside.

"There he goes!" Mark said, seeing him get into a taxi. "We'll have to follow him."

"Yes, but I have a bad feeling that I know exactly where he's going," April said, as they darted to a second taxi. She grabbed her communicator as Mark instructed their cab to follow Mills's. "Open Channel D—get me Napoleon Solo, please."

* * *

Napoleon had continued to diligently look after his sleeping partner and had lost track of time. At last, though, Illya awakened, blinking as he registered the familiar room—and his partner's face. Illya managed a wan smile, pleased that Napoleon's efforts to get him here had succeeded.

"Napoleon…" he said, his voice weak.

"Shh. You still need to conserve your strength!" his partner instructed.

" _Nyet_ … Must tell you…"

"You know who attacked you?" Napoleon asked.

" _Nyet_ … Sorry…" Illya said. "But… I know why they did this."

"Why?"

"To save you."

"… _What_!?"

"Evidently, between Club Thanatopsis and now this case… I am trying to kill you… My attacker wishes to kill me… Before I finish the job." Illya paused to catch his breath. "And you… You will be so pleased… You will reward him for exposing me as a traitor… And you will watch in satisfaction as I die."

"…They said that? They actually said _that_!?"

"When they weren't taunting me for being afraid…" Illya trailed off, seeing a growing rage in Napoleon's eyes. "Napoleon…"

"Listen to me," his partner said, gently holding the sides of Illya's face in his hands so that Illya was looking right at his face. "You just listen to me. You need to tell me everything you can that might identify your attacker."

"It's no use," Illya mumbled. "They had a mask… disguised their voice…" He trailed off. "Wait…"

"You remember something?"

"Baba Yaga… She bit them on the arm…"

Napoleon reached for his communicator, but before he could even call to open the channel, his communicator started ringing.

"Solo here."

"Napoleon? It's April. The plan worked halfway; we drew the attacker out of hiding, but he managed to escape the building before we could seal it off. Napoleon, it's Mills from Section VIII—and I'm pretty sure he's headed right for your apartment."

"Mills!?" Napoleon repeated, stunned.

"Mills…?" Illya murmured, trying to recall his own encounters with the man. But he was coming up blank.

"We've called for backup to get to your apartment, and Mark and I are heading there, too," April continued. "But Mills has a bit of a lead—he kept getting the yellow lights, and we had to keep waiting at the red. He's at least five or ten minutes ahead of us or any backup. You need to get Illya out of there!"

"Okay," Napoleon said, trying to keep his wits about him. "Okay, I'll think of something. But I can't think of anything if I'm sitting here talking."

He switched off the communicator and glanced around the room.

"Mills…" Illya murmured again. "Why would he hate me so much? I cannot recall even talking to him once…"

"He's spoken to me a lot," Napoleon said. "Kept bucking to be my partner before you got transferred—even kept at it after that. Obviously, he thinks he's trying to protect me somehow."

"That explains a lot…" Illya said, weakly.

"We can ponder over that later; right now, we need to figure out what to do if he really is coming here."

"Of course he is coming here. This would be the first place he would look for me to finish me off…" Illya said, dryly.

"Well, he'd have to get past all of the traps on the front door; I activated those after Janet left."

"Napoleon, he is Section VIII," Illya murmured. "That would take him five minutes to get past."

Napoleon exhaled, realizing that Illya had a point.

"And locking the door of the bedroom would take about thirty seconds to unlock," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. Napoleon dashed to the window, contemplating the fire escape. "Okay, we'll have to make a run for it through here. I'll carry you down the fire escape; if we can make it to a taxi…"

Illya just turned his head away.

"Illya?"

"He can fire through the window," the Russian mumbled. "He could tranquilize you and then switch to bullets in five more seconds to finish me off. Worst of all, you might get hit with an actual bullet. Napoleon… It is no use. Go and save yourself, and leave me here."

Napoleon stared at him.

"Do you even realize what you're saying!?"

"Of course I do," Illya said, weakly. "But I can only hold out for so long, Napoleon. I am tired and weak, and fighting back can only do so much against someone as hate-driven as Mills. You did not hear his voice when he spoke to me, Napoleon. Mr. Waverly himself couldn't have stopped him. And though he admires you, you couldn't talk him out of it. He's convinced I've brainwashed you. It is useless."

"Illya, I am _not_ leaving you!"

"Napoleon, please…! You put so much effort into keeping me alive—not just now, but during all of our missions. And I appreciate those efforts very much…" Illya winced in pain, but continued. "But not even you can save me all the time…!"

Napoleon stared at him for a single, stunned moment before his look of shock changed to a frown.

"Who says I can't!?" he demanded. "Destiny? Fate? You don't believe in either of those anyway, so why start this defeatist attitude now!?"

"Napoleon…!"

"You are going to keep fighting—and that's a direct order! And I'm going to do whatever I can-"

He was cut off by an angry pounding on the main door of the apartment; he could hear the sounds of the traps being deactivated.

"He's here…" Illya said. "Napoleon…"

"Okay… Okay; I just need to come up with a plan. Maybe the window idea will still work; even if he can deactivate those traps in five minutes, it's still a five-minute headstart…"

Illya just weakly moaned and turned away from the window, not taking any comfort in this plan, and Napoleon realized that it was highly unlikely to work—especially since, by the sound of it, it would only take Mills two minutes to get past the traps, rather than five.

Napoleon just stood there, staring at his partner as his mind race, trying desperately to come up with a plan as the time ticked down.


	10. Act X: Endgame

_Notes: And, it's done! Thanks to everyone who read and supported this!_

* * *

"Napoleon, please leave…" Illya pleaded again. "The last thing I would want… is for you to get hurt somehow."

"Funnily enough, the last thing I want is for you to get hurt, too," Napoleon said. He looked out the window once more, and then abandoned this idea. It was true that he wouldn't get very far, especially if he carried Illya with him. He sighed and now turned to face the door of the room.

Trying to get the jump on Mills as he entered was one option, but one that wouldn't work if Mills entered firing at anything that moved. It didn't matter that Mills was somehow obsessed with "saving" Napoleon from Illya—if something happened and Napoleon did get hurt or killed in the ensuing confrontation, Mills would somehow blame Illya for it and draw out his suffering all the more.

"Napoleon…"

"We need backup, but it'll take them ten minutes to get here…" Napoleon said. "How can we stall him for ten minutes…?"

Illya didn't respond to this; while his rational side was ready to admit that he was in no condition to defend himself, his rarely-seen sentimental side knew that if there was anyone who could find a way out of this predicament, it would be Napoleon. His partner would not let him die without a fight.

"Tell me one thing," Napoleon was saying. "You said that Mills would taunt you during his attacks?"

" _Da_ …" Illya murmured. "His ego is quite large. But I fail to see what that has to do with anything."

But Napoleon was looking as though the proverbial light bulb just had gone off over his head.

"Illya, I've got an idea. I promise you, you'll be safe through the whole thing, so just go along with me on this."

"What about you…?"

"Well…" Napoleon sighed. "There's quite a bit of risk to me, but I'm willing to take that chance if it means stopping Mills."

" _Nyet_ …!"

"Aside from the fact that I am more than willing to pull rank on you right now, there isn't really anything you can do to stop me, is there?"

Illya, though very much against the idea, was too exhausted to protest as Napoleon now began to set things into motion; even with his own condition as it was, the Russian could only think of his partner, and hope that Napoleon's attempts to protect him from Mills wouldn't end with him getting hurt in some way.

* * *

Once the outer door had been breached, a quick ransacking of the other rooms in the apartment had been audible from the bedroom until the bedroom door was soon kicked open. The lone figure in the bed shuddered, facing out the window, not daring to look back. The figure was tightly wrapped in a blanket, with part of the blanket raised up as a hood to keep out the autumn chill.

But it wasn't the chill that the figure in the bed was trembling about. His breath nearly stilled as the intruder approached him from behind.

"Turn around and face me," Mills ordered. He wasn't bothering to disguise his voice now that the jig was up.

" _N-nyet_ ," the figure in the bed stammered, quietly.

He flinched as Mills kicked him in response.

"Speak English!" Mills yelled at him.

The prone figure didn't respond; he continued to lie there, not daring to move as he heard Mills search the room, and then the bathroom and closet. There didn't appear to be anyone else in the room.

"Glad to see Solo finally ditched you," Mills said. "Did he finally break free from your brainwashing? Or did you realize that it was finally time for you to die, and you didn't want Solo to hear the truth? That doesn't matter; I'll make sure he knows all about your treachery. There won't be any mourners at your funeral, Kuryakin—just revelers, celebrating your death. You see, no one mourns the wicked. Now turn around and face your end like a man! I want to remember the look on your face forever."

But the figure in the bed did not turn.

"Why…?" he whispered, weakly. "Why… are you doing this…?"

"Why?" Mills repeated. "You have the nerve to ask me why? You know exactly what you did! I was next in line to be Solo's partner after his last one had failed. I had applied for a transfer to Section II, and I would have been a field agent fighting by Solo's side. But instead of me getting the chance to work alongside him, you muscled your way in and got the position that should have been mine! I was certain that you would fail—that you would be sent back to Europe after all your gross failures. But, somehow, you manipulated everyone into letting you stay—and that was when you brainwashed Solo, wasn't it? You bamboozled him into signing your transfer!"

" _Nyet_ …"

"You did!" Mills roared. "It's the only explanation for how an all-American man like Solo would be seen in _your_ company repeatedly! And all I could do is watch helplessly as you got Solo to follow you around like a dog on a leash! I would have liked to see him pull free of your control and fight back. But I'll have to live with this."

He kicked the prone figure again; the figure grunted in pain again, but still refused to face him.

"And you weren't satisfied with all of that, were you? Not only did you put Solo under your power and used him to further your career for the last seven years, you muscled your way into Section VIII to hog more glory there, too! Do you know what it's been like, having to share space with a traitor and watch him steal the glory there while not being able to do anything about it because he has the CEA brainwashed as his personal attack dog? It's frustrating, having to put up with something like that, day in and day out! But I saw through your little scheme right away—now that Solo is no longer of any use to you, you're going to kill him on some mission and make it look like THRUSH did it. And then your next plan is to get rid of Waverly and take over the New York branch and make us all march to the beat of your communist drum! And I'm the one who gets to stop your nefarious plan!"

The figure didn't respond this time, and Mills was too enveloped in his twisted fantasy to notice.

"I'll be a hero once I stop you," he said. "And I'll actually look after Solo, unlike you. I'm so glad I stopped you before you really did succeed in killing him. I just wish Solo was here right now to see this moment."

The figure in the bed now finally turned, revealing Napoleon in the bed, his Special raised and pointed at Mills; he fired once, knocking the weapon that Mills had been holding out of his hand.

"Be careful what you wish for," Napoleon hissed, an angry fire burning in his eyes as he glared daggers at Mills.

Mills's entire countenance changed from smug satisfaction to abject horror as Napoleon now aimed his Special squarely at his chest. He never imagined this—his "idol" pulling a gun on him, and with such anger. Mills just couldn't understand it; after everything he had said and did to expose Illya as a traitor, why was Napoleon upset!?

"Solo! Solo, I'm so sorry! I didn't realize that Kuryakin made you take his place! That fiend! He wanted _me_ to kill you-!"

"This was _my_ idea," Napoleon said. "And after everything you put Illya through, consider it a miracle-and undeserved mercy-that my Special is loaded with tranquilizers and not bullets."

"Solo! Solo, please! Just _listen_ to me! Kuryakin-"

BANG.

Mills dropped to the floor like a rock; just as the tranquilizer took effect, he could discern Illya's weakened form under the bed, watching him with an unreadable expression. Illya's weary expression lightened, however, as Napoleon now knelt down and tenderly lifted him out from under the bed and placed him back on it, tucking him in once more; this was all punctuated by Mills's defeated moans just before he fell unconscious.

"It's over, Illya," Napoleon said, softly. "You're safe now."

"You blockhead…" Illya murmured. "He could have shot you…"

"I was going by what you said about him taunting you," Napoleon said, now handcuffing Mills's hands behind his back before returning to Illya's side. "I had a feeling he'd do that before trying to finish 'you' off, so I did my best to keep him talking. The original plan was to wait for backup to get here and then I'd have tranquilized him while he was distracted by their arrival."

"You went ahead and shot him anyway…" Illya observed.

"…My emotions got the better of me," Napoleon confessed. He sighed. "Well, tell me something—if our situations had been reversed, and it had been me lying wounded and poisoned, and you were the one holding the gun on the one who had done it to me, what would you have done?"

"You are truly a paragon of mercy, Napoleon, for I would have used the actual bullets," Illya admitted.

"I wanted to. I _really_ wanted to."

"I doubt anyone would have faulted you, as Mills had the gun on you first," Illya said. "But, perhaps, I am glad you did not."

"Really?"

"I would not have wanted you to change your ideals on my account," Illya mused. " _One_ of us has to be the noble soul, and I have already taken on the role of the ruthless one. I _am_ known as the Ice Prince after all…"

"That's a load of-"

"Napoleon…!"

"They don't know you like I do," Napoleon said. "You are anything but an 'Ice Prince.' You may hide your emotions well, but I can see them."

"I let you see them. I am a very private person. I understand that this leads to my reputation, but until this fiasco with Mills, I had not thought that it could have ever come to something like this."

"Mills isn't a typical case," Napoleon admitted. "He was stewing in jealousy for so long, he began to see things in a way that just weren't true. I don't know where Mills got the idea that he had ever been in the running for my partner; something about him hadn't felt right, and I never even considered accepting any of his many requests—in spite of all those gifts he tried to give me."

"Yet you gave me a chance," Illya mused.

"I consider myself able to read people very well," Napoleon said. "And besides that, I could tell that you were genuine. Not only are you honest, but you don't shy away from saying what you believe to be the blunt truth. And that's exactly what I needed—along with someone I could trust, someone I could enjoy spending time with… All of those things."

"Perhaps that's what I was looking for, as well," Illya mused. He sighed, closing his eyes. "Forgive me, Napoleon, but I am still very weak."

"You don't have to apologize," Napoleon said, gently. "You just keep resting until you get your strength back."

"Mmh," Illya responded, and he was soon fast asleep. He didn't even stir when April and Mark finally arrived with backup, taking Mills away and congratulating Napoleon on catching him alive whiling inquiring as to how Illya was.

Napoleon handled everything in stride, and he calmly waited for everyone to leave before reactivating the traps on the door and returning to Illya's side.

Illya was sleeping peacefully, albeit deeply, and it was as Napoleon reached over to brush some strands of blond hair out of Illya's eyes that he froze, staring at his own hand, which was suddenly shaking.

Napoleon frowned, trying to grab at his right wrist with his left hand, but not even that seemed to stop the tremor, nor did anything he try succeed in stopping the suddenly-swelling emotions in his chest.

With the danger gone, all of the adrenaline that had kept him going over the last two days was going away, leaving behind the very tired and worry-stricken agent who, despite being normally all smiles and confidence and usually handled adversity so well, was suddenly coming to grips with how close he had come to losing his partner.

He allowed himself a moment of weakness—burying his face in his hands for just a minute before returning to his normal, stoic self. He glanced back once more at his partner.

It was the slow but steady rise and fall of Illya's chest that gave Napoleon comfort. Whatever remained of the poison was being fought back by Illya's body. Despite his pessimistic attitude from earlier, Illya was still fighting.

Napoleon sighed, recalling Illya's words from before.

" _Not even you can save me all the time…!"_

He glanced at his partner once more, and managed a wan smile as he watched him peacefully sleep.

"Just let them try and stop me, _Tovarisch_ ," he said, softly. "It's a challenge that I accept."

His hand, no longer trembling, now resumed his original task of brushing Illya's hair away from his face.

Some things, Napoleon decided, were worth fighting Destiny for.

* * *

 **Epilogue**

Illya's recovery was slow but steady; it took another couple of weeks before he was able to return to work, and, of course, Napoleon stayed back to look after him. Illya had been quiet and contemplative throughout his recovery, and though he did talk to Napoleon about his thoughts, things clearly remained on his mind. But it was to Napoleon's concern that, upon Illya's return to U.N.C.L.E., after warmly greeting Baba Yaga, Illya requested to go down to the morgue. It was a bit more than Napoleon could stomach, so he waited outside the morgue with Baba Yaga as Illya opened the drawer holding the body of Colonel Nexor. It was more than a bit unnerving to look into the face of a dead man and seeing his own, but he pushed the thought aside and spoke aloud.

"So…" he said. "Here we are. You, still here. And I very nearly joined you." He glanced at the other drawers before turning back to Nexor. "What I've got to say won't take long… But I've got to say it. You've brought me a great deal of trouble—but I suppose I can't blame you entirely. Mills would have found some other case to blame me for if it hadn't been this one."

He sighed, looking around the room once more.

"It strikes me as ironic," he continued. "You and Gurnius had so many followers—countless people who either shared your horrific beliefs, or those you charmed and deceived into following you. They swore fealty to you and your twisted vision. As for myself, I don't have very many I consider myself close to—certainly no followers to speak of. But I have a very small group of people who mean a lot to me. And though you and your followers outnumbered us by many, your supposedly loyal followers weren't able to keep you or Gurnius alive—those who survived more or less abandoned you to your deaths, and yet, that small group of mine would have been ready to move the foundations of the Earth if they thought that it would have saved my life. I have had a lot of time during my recovery to think about a lot of things, one of which was whether or not it would have been wise to resign—find some line of work in Little Russia where I would not be scrutinized as I am now. But then I thought of my little group—how I couldn't leave them to fight evil such as your lot without me…" He glanced out the glass panel on the door, looking at Napoleon, who was still waiting patiently for him. "How I couldn't bear the thought of not being by Napoleon's side. I belong with him—with them. I suppose I can dare to say that some good came from all of this—that I understand the importance of my being here, for they would not have fought tooth and nail to keep me safe had I not been important to them."

He turned back to Nexor's body once more.

"This experience was still, nevertheless, extremely unpleasant, and, therefore, I cannot thank you," he said, matter-of-factly. "But I will carry the lessons I have learned from it for a long time."

His piece said, he closed the drawer back up and headed outside, nodding to Napoleon that he was finished.

"I never did give Mr. Waverly the mission report," he realized, as the two of them, with Baba Yaga in tow, headed back to their office. "I suppose I have a lot of paperwork to catch up on?"

"I'll help you with it," Napoleon promised, as he opened the door to their office. "But, before that, I have a little something I've been planning…"

"SURPRISE!"

Illya stopped in his tracks, blinking as he saw the sight in their office. Dozens of people were there, from all sections of U.N.C.L.E.—and even Janet was there with a visitor's badge on, standing with April, Mandy, George, and Mark. Waverly was there, too, standing beneath a large "Welcome Back" banner. And on the desk was a tray of bagels of all kinds, with cream cheese and other toppings for them (Baba Yaga hungrily eyeing the lox).

"We never had our bagels," Napoleon said. "So I came up with the idea of a welcome back bagel party for you. The others brought the idea to life, though."

"…You didn't have to do this…" Illya said, clearly taken aback.

"We wanted to, Illya," April said, sincerely.

"Napoleon told us about his idea, and we all agreed that we wanted to show you our appreciation for everything that you do here," Mandy added.

"And not just here," Janet said. "I mean, you helped me—and I'm sure you've helped so many other people."

"You aren't kidding," George said. "If we invited all the innocents you've helped, they'd have violated the building's fire codes…"

"So, this little impromptu gathering had to do," Mark said, and he turned to Waverly. "Anything to add, Sir?"

"Just a hearty 'welcome back' to you, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said, with a nod. "I think you'll be pleased to know that Mills is slated for deprogramming before his imprisonment—and we've decided that Mr. Solo will be the one to do it."

"It would be my pleasure, Sir," Napoleon said, with a nod. "Can Illya be present?"

"If he so chooses," Waverly said. "Now, then, before we have this little party, I think it's only appropriate that you say a few words in recognition of your partner's return, Mr. Solo."

"Ah…" Napoleon said, and he took a moment to gather his thoughts before continuing. "Well, no one is more relived and happy than I am to see Illya back here, of course. Illya has been my partner for seven years now, and, well… I can only say that, ever since day one, it's been an adventure—one that I've been enjoying every minute of. That includes both the good and the bad; I know we don't like those bad times, but even the bad times help me realize just how much he means to me. And, believe me, this latest fiasco has reminded me of that a lot."

He looked to Illya now, ignoring the crowd listening to him, and just looked into his partner's eyes.

"Just after I'd been able to take you home, while you were resting and I was encouraging you to get better, I said that I didn't know where I'd be without you. Well, I've done a lot of thinking about that these past couple weeks, and… It turns out that's not quite true," Napoleon admitted. "I do know where I'd be—and it's not a pretty place. Lost. Alone. Probably dead, so that's technically moot. I've always known that I was a lucky person, and I don't think there's any greater example of that than knowing that you're my partner, always having my back."

"You know that I am dubious about things such as luck," Illya said now. "But I do agree that I am a better man on account of knowing you, and having you as my partner, as well. And I do hope that this team of ours continues to do what we do best."

"I know we will," Napoleon said, and he drew the Russian into a tight hug, which Illya returned.

And even though the room broke into applause (led by Waverly, no less), the two of them were practically oblivious to it until they broke apart, and the party began. And as Illya, Napoleon, and their circle of friends took part in the bagels, they both realized how lucky they were, indeed.

They had each other—and even more, too.

 **The End**


End file.
